


City Kids

by emiliahparton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: But I don't know what kind of AU, I don't even know what characters are in it yet, I guess this is an AU, I haven't even planned this story, It's gonna be a wild ride, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, So is Bucky to be fair, Sorry I suck at tagging stuff, a lot of that, even I don't know, it just is, steve is an idiot, what is this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiliahparton/pseuds/emiliahparton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s so busy wallowing in self-pity that he almost misses the kid curled in on himself by the dumpster, breathing like he’s on his death bed. For a moment he considers just walking on, because it’s cold and wet and he’s really not in a Good Samaritan kinda mood right now, but then he thinks that he’s done enough shitty things tonight, and God’s gonna be pretty pissed if he doesn’t start righting these wrongs, so he forces himself to walk over and tap the kid on the shoulder.</p><p>“Hey buddy, you okay there?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I was bored and wanted to do something kind of light hearted. I wasn’t planning on publishing it but there we are. I have literally no idea what I'm doing. Ha. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

“Fuck you, James,” she spits, and she reaches behind her to wrench her coat and purse from the back of her seat. She looks wild, savage, with her teeth bared and her makeup smeared all over her face. For a moment he thinks she’s actually going to kill him, but all she does is stalk right out of the restaurant, shouting another “fuck you,” over her shoulder in case he hadn’t heard her the first time.

And yeah, he probably deserved that.

No one speaks. Most of the diners are staring at him, and the rest are pointedly looking away, which is just as bad. He feels like he should apologise, but he doubts that would make anything better. They’ve heard the whole argument (you couldn’t have ignored it, what with the way they were screaming at each other) and they all know he’s in the wrong here. A little too late to say sorry.

He sinks into his seat a little and the leather creaks, agonisingly loud in the near-silent french restaurant. He does his best to look sufficiently guilty, but after about thirty seconds of judgement, he can’t help the little jolt of defiance that runs through him. The posh bastards; they’re all too eager to look down on him- some grubby little street kid from the back alleys of Brooklyn, getting above his station. _Well, fuck ‘em too_ , he thinks, and attempts to meet the gaze of every single one of them, glaring until they back down. It doesn’t take long, and even though he knows he’s the only real scumbag here, he still feels triumphant.

He downs his glass of wine (which he hates) and wonders why he didn’t wait until after they left the restaurant to do it. He hadn’t wanted to come here in the first place, but Christine had insisted, and he’d reasoned that if he was going to break it off with her, he might as well let her pick where he did it. She was excited, picking out her best dress- some emerald green number- and getting her hair done properly by Sally Greenaway down the road, and he’d tried not to feel too guilty. It’s not his fault, after all. Sometimes people grow apart- it can’t be helped. The heart wants what it wants.

Admittedly, he probably should have told that he didn’t love her about a year ago, when he’d moved into her apartment. Or maybe the year before that, when she’d used her

dad’s money to get him that car. Or maybe even before that, when she’d asked him on a date and he’d said yes, even though he’d never been even vaguely interested.

Needless to say, there were plenty of better opportunities, but he’d always been too scared to take them. They’d had a pretty good thing going, considering he’d never actually wanted to date her. He’d liked her, he really had, but he’d never seen her as more than a friend. He _planned_ to break it off about a month in, but then he’d found out her parents were practically millionaires, and she just wanted some guy off the street she could spoil, and he started seeing the looks he got in Robbie’s bar when he walked around with _Christine Sanderson_ and, well… things may have got a little out of hand.

Yeah, he knows he’s a jerk.

He’d done his best to indulge her, keep her happy, tell her she was pretty and clever and didn’t need her dad’s money to be successful, she could make it on her own. It was nice. Comfortable.

Then she had to go and propose to him, and everything went to shit.

He realises that’s probably why she’d wanted to come to a showy place like this, why she’d insisted he dress fancy. In hindsight, he really should have seen it coming.

See, he’d pretended to have principals, told her no sex before marriage- which he likes to think makes him a good guy, since he didn’t _completely_ take advantage. He didn’t even cheat on her or nothing. And that’s what she’d liked about him, that he wasn’t just using her for her money and her tits (and she was half right), but after two whole years… well, she had needs same as he did. The sooner they were married, the sooner they could get down to business.

She’d been hinting at it for months, but he’d pretended to be too obtuse to notice.

She’d clearly taken matters into her own hands and bought a ring.

Then she gets on one knee in the middle of a snooty french place, in front of all the highest socialites this side of congress, with a string quartet just behind her and a waiter ready with the champaign, and when she actually asks the question all he can say is, “uh, Chrissy, maybe we should talk.”

And after there there’s just a lot of shouting and crying and more shouting, and now his throat is dry and he’s red-faced with shame and there’s a fuck-ton of champaign ready to be poured down the drain.

He’s pressing his forehead into the table cloth with his arms folded protectively over his head, when he hears someone clear their throat. He looks up, meeting the old waiter’s eye. He looks mad.

“Sir,” he says, and he manages to fill the word with contempt, “what is to be done about the bill?”

_Fuck,_ Bucky thinks, and then continues to think it over and over again, because in the end he’s just some up-jumped urchin and there’s not shitting way he has enough money to cover even half of this. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._ “Fuck,” he says, because there really isn’t anything else he can say.

Five minutes and several kicks to the groin later, he’s lying on his back in the street with the promise that _if you ever sets foot in this this establishment again, I’m calling the police_. He can’t say he’s too disappointed- not like he had any desire to go back there anyway- but his pride’s a little wounded- and so is his crotch.

All in all, he reflects, this has been the worst night of his life.

He eventually peels himself off the sidewalk and begins to drag himself back to… Well, he’s guessing he should be avoiding their apartment, but seeing as he has nowhere else to go, it’ll have to be there.

After ten minutes it starts to rain, and he supposes that’s just the icing on the shitty, rat-infested, razor blade-coated cake of broken dreams.

He’s so busy wallowing in self-pity that he almost misses the kid curled in on himself by the dumpster, breathing like he’s on his death bed. For a moment he considers just walking on, because it’s cold and wet and he’s really not in a Good Samaritan kinda mood right now, but then he thinks that he’s done enough shitty things tonight, and God’s gonna be pretty pissed if he doesn’t start righting these wrongs, so he forces himself to walk over and tap the kid on the shoulder.

“Hey buddy, you okay there?”

The kid starts, twisting around to see who’s bothering him, and wincing in pain in the process. He’s skinny and pale and kinda sick-looking, but there’s life in his big blue eyes. There’s also a fuck-load of blood on his face and stuck in his matted blond hair, though, and that sorta ruins the image. He glares up at Bucky.

“Who the hell are you?” he wheezes, rolling painfully onto his hands and knees.

“Jeez,” Bucky says, ignoring the question completely. “You look you had even worse a night than I did.”

“You should see the other guy,” the kid croaks, and Bucky tries to hold in his laugh but fails. The kid glares with renewed fervour.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, holding out his hand in what he hopes is a pacifying gesture. “I just came over to check you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” he replies, but it’s shortly followed by a bout of wet, wheezing coughs which leave him shaky and out of breath. Bucky puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“Hey, hey, easy kid,” he says. “I got a load a’ painkillers at my place, if you want me to get ‘em.”

The kid shrugs his hand off his shoulder. “I’m no charity case,” he says indignantly, if a little breathlessly. “I don’t need your help.”

Bucky sighs heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his fingers and trying his very hardest not to slap the guy himself. “I know you don’t, but that bruise looks pretty damn painful and it’s only gonna get worse. You might as well take ‘em- I got loads.”

The kid’s lip curls, and he looks more than a little disgusted. Bucky feels like he should be used to that look by now, but he’s not quite. “You got loads?” he repeats. “So, wait, you rich folks just buy up all the meds you can, leave nothin’ for us workin’ guys, and then expect us to be grateful when you let us have your fucking leftovers?” He fires some red-tinted spit at Bucky’s shoes. “No thanks, pal,” he says, with a voice like venom, and turns away with a pained grunt.

Bucky would have started laughing again if it weren’t for the sheer rage in the guy’s voice. He’s certain that someone that small, that weak, that _bloody_ shouldn’t be as terrifying as he is, and Bucky’s a little taken aback. It takes him a couple of seconds to regain his composure, and then he makes a noise that could be a laugh, but it’s a bit too forced, and asks, “what the hell makes you think I’m a rich guy?”

The kid looks back over his shoulder at him, still wearing that look of disdain. “The suit, the shoes.” He raises an eyebrow. “The fact that the only people who walk round this neighbourhood this late are snooty out-of-towners or idiots.”

Bucky definitely does laugh that that one. “What does that make you?”

The kid spits again, but this time it’s not directed at Bucky. “An idiot,” he says, and he manages a bloody smile.

“Well then, I must be an idiot too. I grew up just two blocks from here- I know what it’s like.” He smiles bitterly. “And no, I ain’t a rich guy.”

The kid frowns at him. “You’re not? Then what’s with the get-up?”

“I _was_ wealthy,” he admits, a little guiltily, “but as of about-” he checks his Rolex- “twenty minutes ago, I ain’t got a cent to my name.”

The kid frowns and whistles lowly. “Jeez, you really _did_ have a worse night than I did.” He almost looks sympathetic, but then he narrows his eyes. “Whaddya do, gamble it away?”

He shrugs. “Nah, I guess it was never really my money to begin with.” The kid narrows his eyes even more, clearly wanting him to elaborate. Bucky just smiles sheepishly. “It’s a long story.”

The guy thinks about this for a moment then meets his eye, and Bucky’s surprised to see that all the threat and mistrust is gone from his face in an instant. “Then you can tell me on the way to gettin’ those painkillers,” he says, grinning.

“No, look, I can’t bring you inside. My… girlfriend’d kill me.”

“From the sunds of it, you’re not exactly on speaking terms anyway,” the kid says, and there’s a sick kind of glee in his smile that makes Bucky want to hit him again.

“That’s not the point,” he says, a little more harshly than intended, but the kid doesn’t seem put off.

“So what, you gonna make me walk all the way home in this condition?” he says, all mock-hurt and mock-innocence. Bucky could even swear he sees him bat his eyelashes, at some point. He sighs heavily. No matter how jokingly he says it, the guy makes a good point; Bucky doesn’t want him dragging himself home like this.

“Fine,” he says, then points a stern finger in the guy’s face. “But if Christine’s there then you don’t say a _word_ to her, got it? No causin’ any trouble.”

The kid grins even wider. “What makes you think I’d cause trouble?”

Bucky doesn’t even respond, just rolls his eyes and starts to help the kid up. “My name’s James, by the way,” he says once the kid’s on his feet, one bony arm wrapped around his shoulder. “But most people call me Bucky.”

“Nice to meet ya, Bucky,” he grunts, still struggling to get enough air in after clambering to his feet, “I’m Steve.”

He practically has to drag Steve through the streets, mainly because he’s quite a lot shorter than Bucky and with his arm around his neck, his feet barely touch the ground. He wants to ask Steve how me managed to get so badly roughed up, but the kid must have some kinda breathing problem because he can’t get enough air in to speak. He manages to laugh at Bucky’s tale of woe, though, and for some reason telling it to a stranger makes it seem a little less horrible than it was before. He even manages to laugh a bit too, especially when he talks about getting thrown out the restaurant. It _is_ kinda funny, if he imagines it’s not happening to him.

When he hauls Steve to the front of his building, he’s relieved to see his (well, maybe not _his_ exactly, more like his could-have-been father-in-law’s) Auburn’s still there, and Christine’s car’s nowhere to be seen. He’s not exactly the most religious guy (despite what he’d told Chrissy) but he still thanks God that he doesn’t have to face her again now.

There’s still a chance she’s locked him out completely, though, and even though Steve knows his story and would probably completely understand, Bucky still thinks it would be an utterly humiliating experience, and one that he’s pretty eager to avoid.

“Uh, if the doorman asks, you’re a close family friend and we’ve known each other for years,” Bucky says, and prays that Steve’s paying attention.

“You have a _doorman_?” he practically sneers, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky shrugs as best he can with a person on his shoulder. He turns his attention back to the front door, and drags Steve determinedly towards it.

The doorman is not happy. “You’re back late, Mr Barnes,” he observes. “Where’s Miss Sanderson?” He can’t tell whether that scornful tone means he knows what’s happened or not, but he figures that if he knew he wouldn’t even consider letting Bucky in, so he supposes that means he’s safe.

“She’s staying with her parents,” he says, which might not even be a lie.

The doorman raises an eyebrow, his lips thinning. “And who’s _this_?” he asks, tilting his head towards Steve. Bucky can feel the muscles pressed into his side go tense.

“This is Steve-“

“A close family friend, we’ve known each other for years-“ he inputs, torn between glaring at the doorman and grinning wickedly at Bucky. He ignores him.

“He’s in town for a couple’a days. He took a few wrong turns on the way over here- got himself mugged.” He grimaces for effect, shaking his head sadly. Bucky’s got pretty good at lying over the past few years and it rolls off his tongue easily, so much so that he can’t resist chuckling and adding, “I told him, the only people who walk around in _that_ neighbourhood at night are out-of-towners or idiots, right?”

The doorman doesn't look impressed but he at least looks convinced. His eyes are still narrowed but Bucky thinks that’s more out of general hatred than mistrust. He lets both of them in, which is a bit of a miracle, and he leads Steve inside, limping and bleeding on the carpet.

“Was that really necessary?” Bucky whispers as he pulls them into the elevator.

“Was what necessary?” he asks, his voice high-pitched and full of feigned innocence.

“ _’A close family friend, we’ve known each other for years,’_ ” he imitates.

Steve tries not to grin. “But you said-“

“Fuck you,” Bucky says, and it turns into a bit of a laugh at the end there. Steve laughs with him, and it’s weird, because Bucky really didn’t expect to be laughing tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Look who's back. 
> 
> I'm really grateful to those of you who read, kudosed and commented on the last chapter- you guys rock. I honestly didn't expect such a positive reaction. Man. 
> 
> And an extra thank you FeelsVomit, who's an amazing friend and a top-class beta. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy?

As much as Bucky insists he’s not a rich guy- after all he grew up on these streets, amidst all the dirt and violence and grim survival- he sure feels out of place here. He tells himself that this is his home, where he belongs, but really he’s longing for the plush carpets and velvet curtains that he’s been surrounded by for the past two years. He’s grown out of this, and even though he knows he’ll get used to it, he can’t help the feeling of disgust that writhes under his skin.

They can tell, too. The neighbours. He drags his stuff (which really isn’t much) through the halls and everyone he passes sneers at him, like they can read his shame, like they can smell it on him. He tries to smile, maybe say hi, and it isn’t until he reaches his door that he realises that’s the wrong thing to do, because strangers don’t smile at strangers, not here. Maybe in his old building, where no one’s likely to skin you for your cigarettes, but not here.

He has to wrestle with the door but it eventually bursts open. He stares into the room and tries not to be too disheartened. He’s slept in worse. When the depression hit fully him and his sis had to sleep under a bridge because they couldn’t afford the rent for their place. She’d woken up one night screaming, and at first he’d thought it was the nightmares again, but it turned out it was just a gang of rats chewing up the food they’d saved for tomorrow. Becca had cried until morning, like that was the thing that finally pushed her over the edge, like that was-

But he tries not to think about that too much.

He shuffles into the apartment, dumping his bag on the bed. He’d hardly managed to salvage anything from Chrissy’s, just a few changes of clothes, some photos, his wallet, but that’s something of a blessing, he supposes, because there’s next to no storage space. (He has to laugh at himself for thinking that. A couple of years ago he didn’t even know there was such thing as storage space.)

He spends the next ten minutes unpacking, and the whole time he’s thinking what a shitty human being he is and what shitty luck he’s got. After that he sits down on the bed and thinks about that a little more.

_Shit._

He doesn’t really know what to do now. It’s not like he has a job, seeing as no one’s hiring these days, and he doesn’t have any books or nothin’. He tries to remember what he used to do on days like this, but he doesn’t think he ever had any time alone. He was always looking after his mum or his sister. Surviving. Being with Christine was his first experience of free time, and the idea of losing it now is-

“Well I’ll be damned. They weren’t kidding.”

Bucky whips around, and he almost doesn’t recognise the kid without the blood and the bruising and the torn up shirt. Steve’s leaning against the doorframe (Bucky doesn’t know how he got the door open, but he’s too relieved to see a familiar face to care) with his blonde hair combed back and a lazy grin on his face. Bucky grins back.

“Christ, Steve, you scared the shit outta me,” he says, rushing forward with his hand outstretched. “It’s good to see you.”

Steve shakes his hand firmly. “I heard rumours that some sad-looking, greasy-haired asshole was in the building, and I just knew it had to be you. Had to come and see for myself.”

Bucky ignores the jab, letting go of Steve’s had and frowning. “They’ve been talking about me?”

Steve loses his smile for a moment and he looks a little guilty. “Yeah, well, we don’t get many new people in.”

“They hate me, don’t they?”

“They don’t… hate you. It’s more of a mild dislike.” Steve looks like he doesn’t know whether to smile or not, so he just carries on. “The way they see it,” he starts carefully, “you’re some upper-class brat - their words, not mine - who’s landed himself in the shit and thinks he’s better than he is. They’ve seen that kinda thing before.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean I tried to explain to them but… Well, I’m not sure they’re going to be very welcoming.”

Bucky shrugs, trying not to let his annoyance show. He knows the only reason he’s getting angry is because they’re pretty much spot-on. “If it helps, that ain’t true,” he says, because he’s a big fat liar, “but I get why I’m not exactly popular.” Steve’s looking at him doubtfully, and Bucky tries to give him a reassuring smile. “I can take care of myself, Steve. Hey, you wanna come in?”

Steve smiles again, and pushes past him. “Haven’t I taken care of that already?” he asks dryly.

“Yeah- How’d you do that, anyway?” Bucky replies, forcing the warped door closed.

“You don’t get far here without knowing how to pick a few locks,” Steve says, pushing his hands into his pockets and surveying the apartment.

Bucky leans against the wall and watches Steve move, cataloguing the graceful steps he makes. “You don’t look much like a thief to me,” he muses.

Steve turns around, looking vaguely offended. “Oh no, I don’t steal nothing,” he says, and he sounds a lot like a ten-year-old trying to convince his ma of his innocence. “Not unless they deserve it. It’s just in case they’re in trouble, y’know?”

Bucky doesn’t. “What kind of trouble?”

Steve narrows his eyes at him, his voice taking on that suspicious tone he used when they met a few weeks ago. “I thought you said you lived in a place like this.”

“I did, I did,” Bucky says in a rush, eager to confirm his catagorically-not-a-posh-fucker status. “I just… we kept to ourselves a lot. My dad… Uh…” He definitely doesn’t want to talk about that, especially not with someone who’s still practically a stranger, but Steve’s still staring at him expectantly. The gaze is sympathetic, just asking for more information, not demanding it, but Bucky can tell that Steve’s wildly curious to know what’s got him all worked up. Bucky stares at the floor, hoping that’s enough of a signal, but it isn’t until he mumbles a quiet, “fuck,” to himself that Steve lets him go.

“What do you think of the place?” he asks, averting his gaze long enough for Bucky to get himself back under control. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to smile.

“It’s… nice. Y’know, it’s… cosy. Homely.”

Steve laughs (or at least tries to, but he starts coughing a little). “Don’t worry,” he says, once the coughing has subsided, “you get used to it.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful, I am,” Bucky says, desperately trying not to offend the kid’s home, “I mean, there are a lot worse places around. I just… It’s a bit of a shock to the system.”

Steve waves a hand at him, a small smile on his face. “Don’t worry about it, really. I got a glimpse of what you were livin’ in before- I’m not surprised you miss it.” He grins. “You manage to get the place cleaned up after I left?”

Bucky groans. “Jeez, don’t remind me,” he says, laughing to cover his embarrassment. Although meeting Steve had been fun, taking him back to Chrissy’s place proved to be a mistake. They’d walked in and found the whole place had been smashed up; a cut crystal vase in pieces by the dining table, all the pages torn out of Bucky’s favourite books, clothes strewn everywhere and the the couch cushions slashed. It had been carnage.

The sight had thrown Bucky off, filling him with guilt and shame and completely unjustified rage, and then he’d had to get all embarrassing and emotional, breaking down right there in the living room. He’d sat on the wrecked couch with his head in his hands for the best part of ten minutes. Steve hadn’t spoken the whole time, just hung around awkwardly in the doorway while Bucky had his meltdown.

When Bucky finally raised his head he was hit by even more guilt, having left Steve to bleed all over the carpet, soaked through with rain and badly in need of some pills. “Shit, I’m sorry pal,” Bucky’d said, scrambling off the couch and rushing over to help Steve forward. “I guess I just… uh, got a little distracted.”

“It’s fine,” Steve said, and unlike earlier, it sounded like he’d actually meant it.

Bucky still felt the need to make it up to him- he hadn’t meant to keep him waiting. “You just wait here, alright? I’ll get you some water.” He deposited the kid on the couch and headed towards the kitchen, routing through the cupboards to find a glass which wasn’t so intimidatingly valuable. Something plastic, maybe.

He hadn’t found any plastic cups, but he’d found Christine’s note, tossed on the table and covered in spiky black writing. He’d unfolded it cautiously, wary of what she’d scrawled inside.

_Bucky,_  
I want you out the house by tomorrow night. I hope it was worth it.  
-Chrissy 

It stung. It had fucking burned. He wanted to explain to her that he hadn’t just been using her for her money, not exactly, and that he really had liked her. He wanted to tell her that she was good, she was great, and that someday she’d find a decent fella who’d love her properly and there was no point getting upset over Bucky because he was just some scruffy little street kid.

Mainly he’d just wanted to tell her no, it hadn’t been worth it, and even now he feels fucking sick whenever he thinks about what he did. He’d grabbed a pen from one of the draws and sat down to write a reply, but he’d found that everything he wanted to say sounded like he was making excuses, which he really wasn’t, he just-

“Bucky?”

_Shit_. That was when he’d realised he’d somehow managed to forget about Steve again, and he’d shouted a rough apology back and pushed himself up from the chair with a sigh. He’d filled one of the least expensive glasses and headed back into the living room. “Sorry,” he said again as he walked in.

Steve was trying to piece together a torn-up photograph of the two of them- him and Chrissy- using the relatively uninjured arm to shuffle around the pieces while the other was wrapped protectively over his ribcage. “It’s nothing, really,” he’d said, catching Bucky’s eye. “You get distracted again?”

The rest of the night had gone on with Steve doing his best to hide how much pain he was in and Bucky trying his best not to collapse in a heap and sob over his spectacular, historic, award-winning fuck-up. Neither of them had done very well.

Bucky had offered to let Steve stay the night, but he’d been secretly thrilled when Steve declined. Bucky needed to pack his things and get out of there, and that would be much easier without Steve watching him. Instead, he loaded the kid up with sodium salicylate and whisky, given him Christine’s umbrella and sent him on his way.

If he’d known Steve was going to end up living in the same building, he would have been a little more polite about it.

“Oh, come on,” Steve says, slapping Bucky playfully on the shoulder and pulling him out of his daze, “it really wasn’t that bad.”

Bucky just groans again in response, refusing to pull his face out of his hands, and he hears Steve laugh. “Shut up,” he mumbles, and Steve laughs even harder.

It takes Steve a surprisingly long time to _shut the fuck up_ , and then they continue to make small-talk until Steve glances at his watch and his eyebrows shoot up. “Aw shit,” he mumbles. “Listen, Bucky, I gotta go to work. Give you a chance to get settled in. You think you’ll be okay on your own?”

Bucky laughs and says, “I think I’ll just about manage it, punk,” even though he’s pretty sure he’ll lose his mind if he has to spend more than ten minutes with nothing to do. “I’ll see you around?” he says, and he can’t keep the hopeful edge out of his voice.

“See you around,” Steve confirms, and starts to turn. He’s just about to cross the threshold when something crosses his mind, and he twists back around. “By the way, if you need me I’m in 34C,” he says, sending Bucky a final, good-natured smile before he disappears out the apartment.

There’s a moment of cavernous silence. Bucky throws himself down on the edge of his bed and stares at a space on the wall until his eyes glaze over.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you to all of you for reading, kudosing, commenting etc etc. And thanks to Feelsvomit, as always. 
> 
> BRING ON THE ROMANTIC TENSION

Bucky’s so fucking bored.

Except he knows it isn’t exactly boredom, because there’re plenty of things he could be doing if he had the energy. He could go out for a run, work out, try and make peace with the other tenants. He could go and get the groceries he desperately needs. He could go on another pointless, humiliating job hunt. There are a thousand things to fill his time with.

But he’s in one of those moods, one of those creeping, subtle, not-so-definable moods, where he just doesn’t want to do anything. Every activity feels wrong, somehow. Fake. The only thing he feels like doing is disappearing, melting away into non-existence - not in a _I want to die_ sort of way, just in a _I can’t be bothered to be alive right now_ sort of way.

It’s one long, long hour before he finds a name for the feeling. Loneliness.

Bucky’s so fucking lonely.

And it’s stupid that he didn’t think of it before, because this is exactly how he felt when his sister left. The house had been bigger then, and he’d actually had a couple of books and pencils and tools, but he’d never touched any of them; he always just lay on his back on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

No wonder he’d been so eager to go with Christine.

It actually makes an awful lot of sense now that he thinks about it, because he’s been surrounded by people his whole life. His ma and Becca for the first years of his life, then dad joined them, then he… was gone again, and Bucky’d had to look after the family as best he could. Then ma died and Becca went to college and he was all alone for a full month, and by the time Chrissy came along he was desperate enough to take anyone, say anything.

Jesus fucking Christ; he’s not been in this building a day and he’s already analysing his whole fucking life.

He needs to get out of here.

He grabs his coat and stalks out his room with all the determination and purpose he can muster. He gets out the door of the building in much the same manor, before realising he has no idea where he’s going.

In the end, he just wanders the streets, which isn’t as bad as it sounds. He’s got no money to buy drinks or cigarettes, which blows, but there’s still stuff to see. Although he knows his way around the place, there are a lot of areas he’s never actually seen before; the rich places that he’s never felt worthy of stepping in. It’s a bit of a trek to the expensive streets, but it’s worth it just to admire the freshly-painted houses and manicured lawns, to gaze at the tall apartment blocks with their sparkling windows, and live vicariously for a while.

It occurs to him that even though he was living in a place like this not two weeks ago, he already sees this as another world.

But he doesn’t think he belongs in the shady back-alleys or the crummy, stained walls of lower class Brooklyn either.

Which means he’s trapped awkwardly between both, like an insect squeezed between two panes of glass, and he doesn’t really know what to do with that.

Eventually he decides that that’s enough revelations for one day, and turns back for what he regretfully has to call home. Hey, maybe Steve will be back, he thinks hopefully, and he has to admit that does make him feel a little better- even if it does sound pathetic.

***

He can’t sleep.

Maybe it’s this bed, he thinks, as he shifts to avoid the springs digging into his back. It probably has less to do with the bed, though, and more to do with the way the ramshackle building feels like it’s going to collapse any second and the general air of vulnerability that follows him around like an annoying, yapping puppy. He keeps on hearing unidentifiable creaking sounds, and every time the people living below him laugh, it sounds fairly demonic as it leaks through the floorboards. He also remembers what Steve said about everyone knowing how to pick locks, and about them hating his guts, and he’s left with the not-so-impossible fear that someone’s going to stab him in his sleep.

Okay, so maybe he’s a little paranoid. But hey, he has a right to be afraid- this place doesn’t even have a _doorman_.

If he’s honest with himself (which he tries not to be, but he’s tired so he’s relaxing the rules a little) then he knows there’s another reason he’s getting all worked up. See, it occurs to him that Steve’s pretty much his only friend now, which he knows is fucking ridiculous but he can’t help it, and even though he cringes just thinking about it… Well, he sort of wants to see Steve. A lot.

Bucky blames it on the fact that he’s alone, that this place scares him a little, that he’s tired and not really thinking straight. And hell, Steve’s a pretty swell guy, to be honest. He’s funny, interesting, and easy to talk to. In terms of people to cling to, Bucky could do a lot worse.

So fuck it. He’s not getting to sleep anyway.

He throws the covers off and gets dressed as quickly as possible, denying himself the time to realise what a stupid and actually kind of selfish idea this is. He’s out the door in about thirty seconds, and after a few minutes of frantic navigation, he stops in front of Steve’s front door.

He takes a deep breath and knocks. There’s no reply.

He knocks again. Still nothing, no sound coming from inside the apartment.

He knocks a third time, and his shoulders fall when there’s still no answer.

He tries again on a whim- a last attempt before he gives up.

He really doesn’t expect an answer.

“What?” Steve demands as he throws the door open, and the sound reverberates through the hall. Bucky’s more than a little taken aback, not just by the the fury in Steve’s voice but also the long, savage cut that’s running over his brow and the way his lip is split and his left eye is black and swollen and a million other ailments that Bucky can’t take in all at once.

“Jesus, Steve,” he whispers. “Again?”

Steve’s jaw sets and Bucky could have sworn he saw him flare his nostrils a little. “Did you want anything?” he snaps.

Bucky shakes his head, a little too stunned to come up with a particularly articulate reply. “I just… wanted to see you were okay. What the hell happened?”

Steve looks down at his feet. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“That’s exactly what you said last time. What _happened_ , Steve?” Bucky says, his voice all breathless with a confusing mix of concern and frustration.

“Just… some jerks around by the butchers is all,” he mumbles, and although his voice is passive enough his body is still radiating anger. “I’m fine, I swear.”

“You need to take care of that cut, Steve, or its gonna get infected,” Bucky says. He reaches out to take a closer look at it but Steve recoils, batting his hand away like Bucky’s seen some of the feral cats by Mrs Brewer’s do. Bucky holds his hands up, taking an almost invisible step backwards. “Whoa, I’m just sayin’, you need to get that looked at.”

“Do I look like I can afford a fucking doctor?” Steve says, straightening up to look Bucky in the eye. It’s vaguely terrifying.

“No, I know but…” He sighs, wiping a hand over his brow. “Look, you’re not gonna like the idea, but hear me out, okay? I used to get into a lot of fights when I was younger- maybe not as many as you, but still a lot- and seeing as I got a few meds and stuff from Christine… Maybe I could take a look. It’s not professional treatment and I can’t make any promises, but it’s better than what you’re doing right now.”

Steve gives him that look again, the one filled with mistrust. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

Bucky shrugs. “Some,” he says. “More than you.”

Steve studies him for a little longer, and then retreats back into his apartment. Bucky’s hands curl into fists in frustration and he’s about to turn around and head back, but then Steve reemerges with a jacket under his arm and an inhaler that he’s attempted to hide in his pocket. Bucky pretends not to notice.

He leads the way back to his room in silence (he gets a little lost on the way but Steve’s either too polite or too mad to say anything) while Steve fumes a couple of steps behind him. When Bucky gets back he orders Steve to sit on the bed while he goes to fetch some meds from his bag.

“Alright,” he says, throwing himself down next to where Steve’s glaring at the bedspread. “Do you wanna tell me what happened?”

“I told you,” Steve mumbles. “Some guys by the butchers were looking for a fight.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks as he reaches forward to inspect the wound on Steve forehead. The kid flinches a little but then seems to remember why he’s here, and lets himself go pliant under Bucky’s fingertips. Bucky continues. “What were they doing?”

“Shoutin’ at some poor lady. I told them to stop, ‘cause she was clearly uncomfortable, but they wouldn’t back off.”

“So you hit ‘em,” Bucky says, more as a statement than a question. He tips a few drops of alcohol onto a cloth.

“Yeah. Well I- jeez, that stings- had to, didn’t I?”

"Sorry, I should’a mentioned it would hurt a bit,” Bucky says as he cleans the cut as best he can. It’s a nasty looking thing, red and swollen and oozing, and Bucky’s being as gentle as he can with his clumsy, calloused hands. “How many of ‘em were there?”

He can feel the tension gradually seeping out of the kid, the anger draining from his voice. “I don’t know- three? Four, maybe?”

Bucky bites out a quick laugh, stopping his cleaning to stare at Steve in disbelief. “You took on four guys on your own? No wonder they managed to beat the crap outta you.” He feels Steve bristle and he knows he’s said the wrong thing. It’s amazing how quick the atmosphere changes, from cold hostility to comfortable conversation and back again in no time at all. “Sorry, that was… I shouldn’t have said that.”

Steve’s laugh is bitter, cold. “No, it’s fine,” he says, the words sounding poisonous. “I mean, you’re right. Look at me.” He gestures weakly at himself, and Bucky can’t bear the look of _disgust_ on his face when he does so.

Bucky sets the cloth down. “Hey, don’t… that’s not what I meant. I just… It’s brave, is all. Doing that for a lady.”

“But it wasn’t enough, was it?” Steve spits, staring into his lap. “I didn’t teach them a lesson or nothin’. In fact I probably just livened up their night, gave ‘em something new to laugh at.”

Bucky's man enough to admit that he’s completely out of his depth here, and he has next to no idea what to say. In the end all he can do is awkwardly ask, “they were laughing?” Steve nods, tired and dejected, and he looks so fucking young, Bucky’s heart breaks. He sighs. “I told you I used to get into fights,” he starts, and he doesn’t really know where he’s going with this but it makes Steve finally meet his eye, so he decides to run with it.

“I had a lot of anger when I was younger. My childhood was… uh, rocky, and when it got too much I used to go and find someone bigger than me and pretty much ask ‘em to beat me up.” It’s Bucky’s turn to drop his gaze. This is way more information than he was meaning to give up but he’s painfully aware that he can’t back out now. “Sometimes I won. Most of the time I didn’t. And I mean, I’m not a small guy but they were huge, like… like bears, or something. And when one of them beat me, he’d always laugh. Not because I was something laughable, just because… well, that’s what they did. That’s all part of it, for them. Makes ‘em feel big.” He scratches the back of his neck and swallows. “Uh, I guess what I’m saying is they weren’t laughing at you because you’re worth laughing at, they’re laughing at you because they’re assholes.” A pause. “So…” He feels like he should fill the silence but he can’t think of anything more to say, and he’s been talking for what feels like ages, so he figures it’s Steve’s turn to say something.

“I’m sorry,” is what Steve ends up saying, and that’s the fucking _worst_. “I mean, that you felt the need to do that.” Bucky doesn’t respond. Steve clears his throat, straightening up a little. “And I know that I don’t have anything to be ashamed of, really, it’s just annoying when you can’t even make one of them feel bad, y’know?”

Bucky’s spectacularly grateful that the focus has shifted away from his insecurities and back to Steve’s, as awful as that makes him. “Yeah, I know. They’ll come round eventually, though. You can only go being a dick for so long until someone calls you out on it.”

Steve manages to offer a tiny smile. “Yeah, I guess.” He glances down at the cloth then back up at Bucky, and Bucky takes that as a signal to keep going.

The silence that falls between them isn’t quite comfortable, but it’s a little better than the awkwardness of before. Bucky can feel Steve watching him, trying to figure out what’s going on in his head, and Bucky curses himself for saying anything. There’s a reason he doesn’t talk about himself much, and it’s all because of _that look_ , that searching, scrutinising gaze that makes him feel all kinds of self-conscious.

He's just finishing up, handing Steve a couple of painkillers from his little amber bottle, when he decides he’s had enough. “Cut it out,” he says, smiling to show he’s not really mad (even though he is).

“What?” Steve asks, and from the small frown on his face it seems he genuinely doesn’t know.

“Staring. You’re making me nervous.”

Steve blushes- actually blushes- and the sickly orange streetlight that shines through Bucky’s window turns the pink in his cheeks to a startling, bright red. “I-I didn’t. I wasn’t… I mean, sorry.”

Bucky wasn’t expecting so much of a reaction, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. “No no, it’s okay. I just. I don’t like being pitied.”

Steve’s confusion doubles. “You-“ He pauses, collects himself. “You thought I was pitying you?”

“Well… yeah. I mean, I so much as mention my childhood and that’s the look people get.”

Steve laughs to himself, shaking his head slightly, and Bucky can’t help feel he’s missed something. “No, that’s not... I wasn’t pitying you.”

And yeah, Bucky’s definitely missed something.

But it’s late and he’s tired and as much as he loves company, he kinda wants to lock himself away for a while and sleep until noon. He’ll ask about it tomorrow, if he can be bothered. “Anyway, just keep some ice on the swelling and don’t take any more pills until the morning. And for God’s sake, no more fights, okay?”

Steve grins at him, and even in his exhausted, irritable state Bucky can’t help grinning back. “Yessir. I promise I’ll be good.”

“You fuckin’ better,” Bucky says as he shows the kid out.

“Night, jerk,” Steve calls over his shoulder as he leaves.

“Punk,” Bucky shouts, because no way is he letting that guy have the last word.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for being so long- so many exams. I'm drowning in them. Luckily I only have two left, and then I'll be FREE. 
> 
> Still, if you'd like to send good vibes to me and Feelsvomit, they wouldn't go amiss. 
> 
> So here we go again. Thanks for reading and feel free to let me know what you're thinking.

Steve comes over the next morning and brings breakfast with him. As much as Bucky hoped he could sleep for a while longer, he’s extremely grateful for the food- he didn’t bother stocking up yesterday and he’s fucking starving. They spend the next couple of hours talking about nothing, making stupid jokes, and eating crappy, burnt toast. It’s nice. Comfortable. They carefully avoid pretty much all serious topics, and Bucky’s just fine with that. He’s happy not knowing Steve at all, providing it’s mutual distance. He’s not going to pretend he isn’t curious about Steve, but he’s not so curious that he’s willing to pour his heart out. Leave that for another day.

Bucky’s just washing up the plates (which doesn’t involve anything more than running them under the cold tap and leaving them on the side) when Steve announces he has to go to work.

“I’ll be back by nine,” he says, shrugging on his jacket. “I’ll bring dinner.”

“You’re a saint,” Bucky says, and Steve grins at him as he leaves.

And then, because he’s a terrible human being, Bucky spends the rest of the day trying to break into Steve’s apartment.

It’s not like there’s anything he wants in there- in fact he’d rather not be doing this at all; the invasion of privacy makes him feel all kinds of ashamed- but he also hates letting Steve have the upper hand. He’s a reserved kinda guy, and even though he’s 99 percent certain Steve would never come snooping around his place, Bucky wants to be able to threaten him with a counter-break-in just in case. Call him paranoid, but in a building like this he needs to know he’s not completely unprotected. Besides, Steve told him he needed to learn anyway, if he wanted to survive, and although he was probably joking Bucky prefers not to take the chance.

It gives him something to do, anyway.

No one really pays attention to him as he squats in the hallway, jamming paperclips into the rusting silver lock. Occasionally one of them will give him a suspicious sideways glance, but as soon as they realise it’s that rich kid from upstairs they just laugh to themselves and continue on their way. Bucky doesn’t mind their lack of faith- he knows he’s not much of a threat. After all, he’s been crouching in front of this damned door for an hour and a half now, and he’s no closer to getting it open than when he started.

But the time isn't wasted. His trip to the third floor allows him to eavesdrop on a number of conversations between obnoxious tenants (who are shockingly unconcerned about some punk trying to wheedle his way into one of the other guys’ rooms). He learns about a hell of a lot; Carol’s affair with Pete the Scrounger, who Darren threatened to maim last week, where to buy the best damn heroin in town- a ton of stuff he hopes he’ll never need to know. He also learns more useful things, about the factory where everyone seems to work and which rooms to stay away from. Bucky clings on to the information like his life depends on it- which, to be fair, it probably does.

After couple of hours his thighs are killing him, his neck hurts and the paperclips are so bent out of shape he can’t even remember what they used to look like. If he was thinking sensibly, he’d probably just call it quits and leave, but something like pride holds him in place. He doesn’t want to leave without something to show for it, so he attacks the bolt harder, jabbing savagely with the paperclips until he ends up stabbing his thumb. He curses and sucks the blood off his finger.

“Maybe burglary just isn’t your thing,” says a voice, and Bucky twists around with the thumb still in his mouth. The guy’s tall and muscular and considerably threatening, leaning in the doorway opposite with his arms folded. He’s grinning but it isn’t warm and friendly like one of Steve’s smiles- this one’s dry and crooked and just the wrong side of teasing.

Still, the guy hasn’t attacked him yet, which Bucky decides to take as a good sign. He removes the thumb and smiles in a way which he hopes is bashful, and not the expression of a man who’s scared shitless. “Neither’s not eating for two days, but I manage.”

The man laughs, and on second thought that smile might not be as dangerous as he’d first thought. God Almighty, he really _is_ paranoid.

“Why are you trying to get into the little guy’s place anyway?” he asks.

Bucky’s a little offended on Steve’s behalf that he referred to him as ‘the little guy’ but he’s not quite big enough or brave enough to argue. “Steve broke into mine yesterday. I figured I’d return the favour,” he says, and realises he sounds like a bit of a bastard when he says it out loud.

But the guy just laughs and holds out his hand. “I’m Rumlow,” he says, still grinning like a shark.

Bucky wonders whether he should introduce himself as Barnes, if second names is what they’re doing, but he realises he’s overthinking things and internally chides himself. He climbs off his knees (swallowing the little grunt of pain when his joints complain- he isn’t a senior citizen, for fuck’s sake) and shakes Rumlow’s hand. “I’m James,” he says.

Rumlow nods and there’s a small pause. "So, _James_ ,” he says, like he’s assessing the name, testing it out. “What brings you down to this forgotten floor of society?” He gestures theatrically at the hall, with it’s peeling walls and twisted floorboards.

Bucky swallows. “Didn’t fit in anywhere else.” He shrugs- a gesture that he hopes is casual, carefree- and adds, “I barely fit in here.”

Rumlow tilts his head, studies Bucky from this new angle. “What makes you say that?”

Bucky shakes his head. Where does he start? “Oh come on, I can see the way everyone looks at me,” he says. “I just don’t know what I’m doing to piss everyone off.”

Rumlow shrugs. “Don’t take it personally. These people don’t exactly like strangers, but they’ll get used to you. You’ll get used to us, too,” he adds with a smirk. Bucky isn’t exactly comforted, but it sort of helps to know what he’ll get there eventually. Rumlow reaches into the pocket of his well-worn jeans. “Do you smoke?”

Bucky shrugs. “Not for a while, but it’s a habit I’d sure love to get back into.”

Rumlow hands Bucky a cigarette, sticking one between his lips before he leans forward with the lighter. “Yeah? Why’d you stop?” he says as he lights up.

Bucky takes one long drag, relishing the feel of ash in his lungs again. He exhales, sending smoke swirling down the hall. “A girl I was with,” he says as he watches the grey clouds above Rumlow’s head. “She hated the smell. Said it reminded her too much of this asshole she used to date.”

Rumlow releases a cloud of smoke too, obscuring his face with the haze. “Yeah, I had a dame like that once. Wouldn’t let me wear black because it reminded her of her dad’s funeral.” He tilts his head back. “Jeez, she was crazy.”

“Christine wasn’t crazy,” Bucky says, oddly defensive considering she kicked him out. “She just… I mean I wanted to make her happy.”

Rumlow gives him another toothy grin, and this one’s definitely sly. “You’re mighty noble, James. The girls must be all over you.”

Bucky gives a self-deprecating chuckle and looks down at his feet, hoping he’s not blushing. “I don’t know about that,” he mumbles.

“Are you kidding? A handsome guy like you- you must be fighting ‘em off.”

And now Bucky’s sure he really is blushing. “Not exactly. Not after-“ He stops himself. “Things with Chrissy… didn’t end well.”

Rumlow’s smile softens a little, and it’s _almost_ sympathetic. “Christ. What did you do?”

Bucky shrugs, takes another drag on his cigarette. “It’s- It’s a long story.”

Rumlow doesn’t push any further, just breathes out another cloud of black. “Well, if you ever feel like telling it, I’m always here with a pack o’ smokes and bottle of whisky.”

Bucky smiles up at him, and it’s genuine, natural. “Thanks. One day I may just take you up on that.”

Rumlow nods at him, blows a final draft of smoke into the hall and turns smoothly back into his apartment, swinging the door shut behind him.

Bucky stares at the door while he finishes his cigarette, thinking that if he isn’t much mistaken, he’s just made another friend in the building.

***

Bucky drums his fingernails on the table, tapping out a tune he doesn’t know as he waits for Steve to get back. _He should be here by now,_ he thinks, checking his watch for the thousandth time. It’s getting near to eleven now, and Steve should have been back two hours ago.

Bucky wonders if he went back to his apartment, decided to have dinner on his own, didn’t want to see Bucky anymore today, but the thought kind of depresses him so he stops it before it really has a chance to sink in. He’s hungry as hell but he can’t be bothered to go out and get something; he doesn’t like the thought of going out this late anyway. So he just checks his watch again. 10:56.

He thinks about what he’s gonna write in his letter to the factory tomorrow. Should he mention he’s staying in this building, where all the workers seem to be from? Or is that just gonna make him sound desperate? He wonders whether he should apply at all, considering he has doesn’t have much of an idea what the factory actually makes and he doubts he has any of the skills they need. But then, anything has to better than what he’s doing now- scraping by on money he stole from his ex-girlfriend and scrounging off others for meals. Still, he’s dreading actually going to work there.

10:57. Shit.

He carries on tapping and thinking, thinking about all the bad shit behind him and the bad shit to come, and by the time the hand hits the hour he’s balls deep in despair. His head’s on the table and his mind’s filled with grey-

And then he hears the weak knock on the door, and he tries to plaster a smile on his face when he pulls it open.

He should probably be used to seeing Steve covered in blood, because he’s rarely seen him without it, but it still comes as a shock to see the fresh, wet wounds and the huge black bruises.

Steve attempts to smile, but it’s so red and bloody and swollen that it looks more terrifying than reassuring. “I had ‘em on the ropes,” he says.

Bucky can’t help but smile, frustrated as he is. “I know ya did, punk. Get in here. Let me clean you up.”

Dinner’s put on hold while they repeat the routine of last night. This time Steve only took on one guy, which is a miracle, and even though Steve’s bleeding from every part of his body it must have been a good fight because he manages a few smiles. He’s still in a lot of pain, though, and Bucky gives him a couple more sodium salicylate pills.

“Maybe you should slow down, kid,” he muses from the bathroom. “We’re running short on pills.”

“Bucky, I had to. If you were there you would’a done the same thing.”

Bucky’s not so sure about that but he doesn’t bother to correct him.

“You been smoking?” Steve says as Bucky steps out of the bathroom.

“Yeah, a little.”

He wrinkles his nose. “You stink.”

“You're real charming, Rogers.”

Steve gives him a sad, almost pleading look, a _please-don’t-make-me-say-it_ kinda look, and it’s only then that Bucky realises what he’s getting at. That it’s messing with his lungs. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I hate the smell too. I’m not planning on making a habit of it.”

Steve seems reassured, his face lifting again, as he subtly reaches for his inhaler.

Steve abandoned the food bags in the alley when the fight broke out, which Bucky can’t exactly blame him for, so they go and raid Steve’s cupboards for food. There isn’t much, but Bucky finds some tins of soup which he heats up while Steve sits at his rickety table and complains about being waited on.

There’s a small lull in the conversation, and seeing as Steve’s panting a little, Bucky guesses it’s his turn to take charge. “I met someone today. In the building,” he says, as he places a bowl of chicken soup in front of Steve.

Steve looks up at him gratefully and picks up a spoon. “Who?”

“He lives opposite you. Rumlow.”

Steve’s face changes instantly, and even in it’s bruised, blotchy state Bucky can see the disgust there. “Why would you want to talk to Rumlow?”

Bucky shrugs. “He seemed nice enough to me.”

Steve bites out a laugh. “Don’t be fooled,” he says, as he swallows a spoonful. “He’s a piece of shit.”

Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever heard Steve say anything like that before, something so obviously hateful (then again, he has only know him for about two days). Bucky raises an eyebrow at him. “Why? What did he do?”

Steve’s face twists. “Nothing. He’s just- He’s just a bully.”

Bucky doesn’t really know what that means. “What makes you say that?”

Steve huffs, staring into the soup angrily. “You can tell, can’t you?” he says, almost dismissively. “When he speaks. The way he looks at you. He’s got this… air about him.”

“The way he looks at you?” Bucky mimics, not bothering to keep the scepticism out of his voice. “He doesn’t look at you like… anything.”

“Well sure,” Steve says, and there’s something like malice lacing his words. “He wouldn’t look at _you_ like that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh come on, Buck, you know what I’m talking about,” Steve says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. It isn’t. When Bucky doesn’t respond he sighs and drops his spoon on the table. “Look, you’re strong, you’re healthy. He’s got no reason to look down on you.”

“He’s got no reason to look down on you, either.”

Steve scoffs, his hands curling into fists on the table. “Sure he has.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and Bucky’s not going to patronise him by asking him to. He knows what Steve’s talking about, even if he doesn’t agree with it. “That doesn’t mean he should make fun of you for it.”

“Exactly,” Steve says, “that’s what makes him a bully.” He leans back in his chair, triumphant. He’s waiting for Bucky to argue against him, but there isn’t really anything he can say to that.

“Fine. I’ll steer clear of him.”

Steve shrugs (or tries to, with his sprained shoulder), like he doesn’t care either way. “Yeah, if you want.”

They eat in a silence which borders on comfortable.

***

That night, after Steve’s gone back to his apartment, he tracks down the guy who put the cut on Steve’s face and breaks his arm. The next morning he smiles at Steve as he heads out for work and doesn’t regret a thing.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve has a window in his apartment- something which Bucky’s extremely jealous of. Buck has a window too, but it’s tiny and looks down onto some dark, dingy alley where the drug dealers like to hang out. There’s a gap between the bottom of the panelling and the window frame which lets in the winter air, as well as the occasional cockroach, and the glass is all stained and yellowing.

But Steve has a proper window, taking up almost all of one wall, with a pretty spectacular view of the city. It leads onto a fire escape, so in the evenings Steve can sit on the window sill with his feet dangling down and a sketchpad on his knee, scribbling down whatever comes into his head.

And that’s exactly how Bucky finds him a couple of nights later, after Steve’s back from work and has had time to change and freshen up. Bucky lets himself in (Steve told him where he hid the spare key) and takes his time looking over the room, sweeping his hand over bare counter tops and empty shelves. There’s a cluster of neat pencil sketches on one wall, above the couch, but they’re all of people and places he doesn’t recognise. Steve doesn’t turn to face him, and Bucky isn’t sure Steve knows he’s even here, so he lets himself stare for as long as he likes.

One is of what Bucky assumes is a family home- a modest but cosy looking thing, tucked between two other smudged buildings and complete with trays of flowers out the front and empty milk bottles on the doorstep. There’s another of a scruffy-looking dog ties to a fire hydrant. Another of a dark-haired woman mid-laugh, eyes creased up and head tipped back, bright white teeth. None of the pictures contain Steve, but Bucky’s fairly certain he recognises the kid’s mother, smiling softly at him as she perches on a park bench, fiddling with the ends of her pretty floral dress.

There’s something sad about that last one, though, and it feels too personal for such close inspection. So he untangles himself from the feeling and goes to fetch a beer, because it’s not like he’s paying for it and why the hell not? Steve still hasn’t turned around.

“So this is what you spend all your time doing,” Bucky muses as he steps out to join him, taking a seat on the window ledge. Steve smiles up at him. “I was wondering how you hadn’t died of boredom already.”

Steve looks so calm out here, washed in the dirty orange glow of the city and the silver light of the evening. They can’t see the sun set- they’re on the wrong side- but Bucky doesn’t think that matters too much. Steve adds a mark to his pencil skyline. “I’ve always liked drawing,” he says, and there’s something almost wistful in his tone. “It’s one of the few things I’m good at.”

“Aw, come on,” Bucky says, nudging his shoulder. “I bet you’re good at lots of things.”

Steve shrugs, valiantly trying to look nonchalant as he continues to sketch. “Nah,” he says, “not the important stuff.”

“What kind of important stuff?”

(Steve scratches his head with the end of his pencil and a bit of blond hair sticks up awkwardly. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care and Bucky has to hide his smile.)

“Sports,” Steve says. “Running. Climbing stairs. Breathing.”

“You’re worried about _breathing_?” Bucky says, with exaggerated disbelief. “Breathing is boring. Overrated. Y’know, you’re better off without it.” Steve’s not quite smiling, but it’s close enough. “What else?”

“Talking to people,” Steve says with a sigh. “Talking to _girls_.”

Bucky scoffs. “Who needs girls?” He’s joking (obviously) but Steve still narrows his eyes at him. “Is that it?” Bucky asks.

“Well… yeah,” Steve says, “but come on, Bucky. It’s an impressive list.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’ve met worse people.” Steve grunts at that- neither a confirmation or denial- and turns back to his drawing, scratching a shadow in frantically. Bucky settles back against the window frame, leaning his head back against the wood as he wraps his arms around himself. Jesus, it’s freezing out here.

“So,” Steve starts, a hint of awkwardness in his voice. “You- You don’t have a problem. Talking to people, I mean.”

Bucky can’t help the smile that tugs at him. “Talking to _dames_ , you mean.”

Steve shrugs. “Sure.”

“No, I don’t have a problem.” Steve glances up at him but looks straight back down as soon as he sees the smirk on Bucky’s face. Bucky waits a moment, then says, “why do you ask?”

Steve shrugs again.

Bucky rolls his eyes, carefully suppressing a sigh. “Who is she?”

“Who?”

“The girl you’re so keen on talking to.”

“No one.”

“Come on, Steve.”

“No one, I swear.”

“Steve.”

“I _swear_.”

Bucky huffs, folding his arms. “You’re a stubborn ass, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” Steve says, deadpan, settling back to his drawing. There’s a few moments of silence before he speaks again. “Her name’s Peggy,” is what he says.

_Peggy,_ Bucky thinks. He’s always hated that name. “How d’you know her?”

Bucky barely sees the way Steve hunches in on himself; virtually undetectable. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he says, in the kind of blank, emotionless tone that Bucky knows so well. “She left a couple years ago- moved back to England. I mean, she loved America, but England was her home.”

Bucky hums in agreement, as if he knows what _home_ feels like.

“I just wish I’d said somethin’ before she went, you know?” Steve says, He looking up from his drawing. He fixes Bucky with a wide-eyed stare as the happiness drains from his smile.

Bucky swallows. “Yeah. That blows, kid.”

Steve turns his face to the city, squinting against the harsh yellow lights. “It’s just, if it happens again- I mean if someone like her shows up- I want to be able to talk to ‘em. Make ‘em like me.”

“Talking to girls ain’t no different to talking to guys,” Bucky says, in an attempt to be reassuring. “You just… bat your eyelashes a little more.”

Steve raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re not being serious, right?”

"Completely serious," Bucky says, sounding impressively sincere.

Steve scoffs. “There’s no way I’m _batting my eyelashes_.”

Bucky grins. “Aw, come on. Why not?”

“It’s stupid,” Steve says, and he’s almost pouting.

“It is not. I do it all the time- girls love it just as much as fellas do.”

“I bet you look like an idiot.”

Bucky laughs, punching Steve’s shoulder. “Shut up. I look fucking irresistible.”

Steve’s grinning too now, his drawing long since abandoned. “Go on then. Show me.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “No way.”

“If you’re so damn sure of yourself,” Steve says, holding out his arms, “then show me. I’ll tell you if it works.”

Bucky laughs, but now there’s a hint of discomfort. “You’re weird. I’m not doing it.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Because you know it won’t work. It told you- it’s stupid.”

“It’s not- Jeez, it drives ‘em wild. Ask any of the girls I’ve been out with.”

Steve’s gaze changes, slipping from something teasing to something harsh and curious. “And how many girls is that?”

“That,” Bucky says, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “is none of your damn business.”

“I’m just asking,” Steve says innocently. There’s a childish excitement about him now, an almost aggressive curiosity. Bucky finds it a little disconcerting. “Is it a lot?”

“It depends what you mean by a lot.” Steve doesn’t look satisfied with answer and Bucky swears under his breath. “What, you wan’t a number?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Steve says.

Bucky shakes his head. “You’re sick, wanting to know that. It’s voyeurism. It’s fucking voyeurism.” He’s unaware of the irony when he asks, “how many have you been with, anyway?”

Steve’s jaw goes tense, his fingers tightening around the sketchbook on his lap. “Don’t change the subject,” he says, in a tone that just falls short of teasing.

But Bucky’s a dense fucker, and even though he knows something’s wrong, he doesn’t realise it quick enough to stop. “Why not? You asked me- why can’t I ask you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve says.

“It does to me,” Bucky says, leaning forward. “Go on. How many?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t.”

“You’ll think I’m pathetic.”

“Swear on my ma’s grave, I won’t say a word.”

Steve shifts against the window frame, determinedly looking in the opposite direction. “I mean it’s- It’s no big deal, and- promise you won’t laugh- but I haven’t actually- I mean I’ve kissed girls before and I’ve had… _offers_ , but I never…” He pauses, licks his lips, and then all his anxiety is replaced by annoyance. “Jesus, this is ridiculous. It doesn’t even matter.”

"You had offers?"

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t take ‘em?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Not my type.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, scratching the back of his neck. _Not my type? What the hell does_ that _mean?_ “That’s okay, you know. That’s good. It’s honourable.”

“You think I’m some kinda prude, don’t you?”

Bucky snorts. “You kidding? I heard you talk- you definitely ain’t a prude.”

Steve hums in agreement and picks up his pencil, adjusting the sketchbook on his lap so he can carry on drawing. Bucky breathes a silent sigh of relief when the attention is turned away from him, the band around his chest loosening a little. "Most people think I'm an idiot,” Steve says.

"Bullshit. What do they know?”

Bucky settles back against the window frame and Steve carries on sketching, looking out over the city with a tiny smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill- thanks for reading, kudosing, commenting etc. 
> 
> This chapter's a little shorter than the others, but that's because the next one's going to be a little longer. Fear ye not- it'll balance out eventually. 
> 
> Hopefully the next one will be up in a week or so, but you never can tell with me. Cheers for putting up with me for this long.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, I don't exactly know what happened when I was writing this. It went from flirting to funerals in a relatively short space of time. Buckle up, kiddo.

Bucky starts work at the factory a week later. It turns out they don’t want anything special, just want someone willing to work in shit conditions for next to no pay. He doesn’t have a problem with that. It’s just enough to live on, and he’s got enough saved from the Christine Incident to cover him in case of emergencies. It would be nice if the factory wasn’t so full of thick, black smog that it feels like he’s drowning in it, but that’s something he just has to live with. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

It’s gruelling work. He spends his days in the basement, carrying crate after crate and barrel after barrel of God-knows-what through the various levels of the building. He’s not weak, by any stretch of the imagination, but this kind of hard labour takes him a while to get used to. For the first few days he’s too exhausted to do anything after work except collapse into bed and be sucked into a deep, coma-like sleep, and dragging his tired muscles out of bed each morning is like some new kinda torture, stretching his motivation so much that it feels like he’s gonna snap. He comes home with black under his eyes, dirt on his face, and blisters as big as fists.

It isn’t all bad, though. He gets to spend his lunch hours with Steve in the café were he works, sipping drinks they can’t really afford while Bucky flirts with waitresses he isn’t really interested in.

(He has a feeling he should stop doing that, because every time he gives a dame his winning smile Steve gets this look on face, like he’s trying not to look hurt but he definitely is. Bucky guesses it’s because Steve can’t flirt like he can, although Bucky’s never seen him try. Whatever the reason is, it’s clearly pissing him off, but Bucky’s made it a sort of habit, like routine. If he stopped now, the waitresses might think- Well, they might make _assumptions_ about him, and he knows he’s not gonna last a day if those assumptions get out.)

His lunch break is short and mainly consists of him complaining about how close to death he is while Steve entertains him with stories about interesting customers he’s served that day. Even so, it’s nice to be able to relax a little during the day, and see Steve in a place that isn’t as run down as the apartment.

It’s also nice to see where Steve works. It’s a sweet place- far too up-market for the area- filled with the smell of freshly baked bread and warm coffee. The walls and tables are clean but it still manages to be cosy, with homemade cushions on the chairs and and a couple of booths in the corner.

Steve’s the only fella who works there, and he only got the job because he’s pals with the owner. Apparently guys don’t like being served by anyone without tits they can stare at, and Bucky guesses this is the perfect place for Steve to find those fights he keeps getting into if that’s the way the fellas behave.

“Hey, my boss is comin’ over,” Steve says sunnily one afternoon, while Bucky’s massaging the cramp out of his calf and moaning about a splinter in his palm.

He groans internally, and just about finds the energy to drag a smirk onto his face and think of something charming to say. He lifts his head and she’s walking towards him, and he silently thanks God because she’s gorgeous, way out of his league, and that means he won’t have to bother rejecting her like he does the other dames.

But then she stops in front of their table and the smirk falls off his face. She’s staring right at him, right _into_ him, and it’s like she’s had enough of his bullshit before he’s even managed to spit it out.

Oh, he _likes_ her.

“So you’re Bucky,” she says with a voice like velvet, and she holds out a hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

He wants to ask her name but her words sidetrack him a little. "You have?"

She smiles. It feels predatory. “Are you kidding? Steve here hasn’t stopped talking about you since you showed up in his building.”

Bucky glances at Steve who, sure enough, has turned pink and is glaring daggers at his boss. “That’s not true, Nat, and you know it.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, and she even manages to make _that_ look threatening. “If you say so,” she drawls. At the moment Bucky is so embarrassingly in awe of her that he hasn’t realised he’s supposed to shake her hand, and even after she fixes him with a pointed look it takes him a few moments to clock what’s going on. He eventually takes her hand and her grip almost kills him. “Natasha,” she says, by way of introduction.

"Hi," he says, feeling like a nervous schoolboy again. “I guess I’ve not heard that much about you.”

She lets go of his hand and grabs a chair from one of the tables next to her, swinging it around so she can sit facing him. “We can fix that. What do you wanna know?” she asks, leaning forward.

That’s a pretty big question, because there’re plenty of things he wants to know about her. “Uh, where are you from?” he asks because there’s a hint of an accent there that he can’t place, and besides, it’s a pretty safe question to start with.

“Russia, originally,” she says, tilting her head to one side but not letting her eyes leave his. “That’s where I was born but my parents decided it wasn’t the best place for a newborn and got on the first boat here. Next question.”

"When did you start running this place?"

“A couple of years ago. I was sick of taking orders from the creepy boss at my old job so I quit and my dad loaned me the money to buy my own store.”

“How do you stop people from wrecking it?”

She looks over at Steve and a grin starts to bloom on her face. “He’s my best security guard,” she says with some fondness, and Bucky can’t help smiling at Steve too, even though the kid’s looking positively murderous. Natasha leans forward and stage-whispers, “plus, you’d be amazed how much sweeter fellas are when you wear something low-cut. They tip better, too.”

And yeah, he _really_ likes her.

“That’s some good advice, I better try that some time,” Bucky says, leaning back in his chair and smirking wickedly.

Natasha looks him up and down where he’s splayed out across his chair, appraising him. “You should, it would suit you,” she says, and actually winks at him.

There’s a beat and then they both burst out laughing, purely because it’s too ridiculous to be real.

Steve isn’t laughing.

“Jeez, get a room you two,” he says, sounding more petulant than a grown man really should. Bucky and Natasha laugh harder.

“Aw, come on Stevie,” Bucky says, leaning over to pat his arm and making the gesture as patronising as possible, “we’re only messing with you.”

Steve tears his arm away. “If you end up together, I am not going to speak to either of you ever again.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and pats Bucky’s knee, leaning in to stage-whisper once again. “Don’t listen to him, honey. He’s just jealous.”

"Stop it, Natasha," Steve says, a little more angrily than before.

Bucky laughs, because it feels like it’s all part of the joke, but the moment the sound escapes his lips he can tell something’s changed. It’s only for a second, but it’s enough for him to realise that he’s got it wrong. When Bucky looks closer he realises that the look on Steve’s face isn’t just annoyance, that’s hurt, and the guilt tightens around his stomach. He glances up a Natasha, who’s staring at Steve in a way that means she knows what’s going on- knows more than Bucky does.

And then she laughs too, like everything’s back to normal despite the tension hanging over their table. She climbs up from her chair, smiling at Bucky. “It’s been great talking to you,” she says, ignoring Bucky’s confused expression, “but unfortunately, I have work to do- and so do you,” she adds, raising her eyebrows at Steve.

Steve checks his watch. "My shift doesn't start for another ten minutes," he says, frowning up at her.

Natasha glances at Bucky, then turns her attention back to Steve. “Maybe not,” she says, keeping her voice low, “but I think we have a couple of things we need to discuss, don’t you?”

She fixes him with a very pointed look, and Steve’s shoulders sag, admitting defeat. He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor as he stands up, his eyes darting up to look at Bucky for a second before falling away again. “Yeah. Um. Buck, we’re just gonna be talking about work stuff- it’s pretty boring. I don’t mind if you wanna go.”

Bucky knows he’s missed something, and something pretty big. He stares between the two of them but neither of them give much away, although he’s fairly sure Steve would tell him if he pushed hard enough.

But he knows whatever they’re discussing is private, so he takes Steve’s way out. “Work starts soon, anyway. I better get going.” He stands and holds out a hand for Natasha. “Good meeting you.”

“Likewise,” she says, smiling warmly.

“See you later, Bucky,” Steve mutters.

“Yeah, see you later,” Bucky calls back.

And he has literally no idea what’s going on.

***

That night, Bucky doesn’t fall straight to sleep like he normally does when he gets back from the factory. He goes and knocks on Steve’s door, asks if he wants company for a while. Steve agrees happily, and Bucky tries to find any evidence that Steve’s not okay, that he’s hiding something.

But Steve’s movements are easy, smooth, don’t give anything away. Bucky knows Steve’s not great at lying, but that’s only if he’s lying for the wrong reasons. If he thinks it will be better for everyone if he just stays quiet, as he often does when something’s wrong, then he can lie forever.

He’s been doing it for a few days now, pretending there’s no hint of sickness in him even though he has fits of angry, whole-body coughs and sometimes starts shivering and sweating without warning, so Bucky knows what Steve’s poker face is like. When Bucky tries to mention it Steve just brushes it off, tells him he gets sick all the time, he can handle it.

It scares the shit out of Bucky, but that’s not what he’s looking for right now. That’s a problem for another day. Now, he wants to know what happened at the café. He wants to know what made Steve collapse in on himself when he’s normally so unbreakable.

So he tiptoes around Steve, studying him all the while, asking vague, seemingly unrelated questions and offering short, noncommittal answers to the ones fired back at him.

“Cut it out,” Steve says as he’s washing the dishes, looking over his shoulder at where Bucky’s sitting with his palms spread over the kitchen table.

“I’m not doing anything,” Bucky says, even though he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You’re watching me,” he says flatly. “I don’t like being pitied any more than you do.”

“I’m not pitying you,” Bucky says, and that’s true.

“You’re thinking there’s something wrong with me,” Steve says, and his tone is getting progressively darker. “You’re trying to figure out what it is.”

Bucky shifts in his seat. “That’s not- I mean, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.” He stares at his hands. “It’s just. At the café. With Natasha.”

“You ever think I don’t want you to know?” Steve asks, with a definite coldness to his voice. He carries on scrubbing the dishes, his movements precise and mechanical. Bucky wishes he’d turn around to face him.

“Yeah, I know, and you don’t have to tell me,” Bucky says hurriedly, holding his hands up in surrender even though Steve isn’t looking at him. “But… you can talk to me, Steve, you know that. You can tell me anything.”

Steve shrugs. “Not like you ever tell me anything, is it?”

He has a point there. Bucky would love to argue against it, to trade some of his feelings for Steve’s, maybe, but he’s not that kind of guy. He doesn’t trust that easily, and even though he knows how good Steve is- one of the best people he’s met- he’s not ready to share that with him. Not yet.

“Yeah. Okay,” Bucky says, and he hates himself for being such a coward. “True.”

The silence hangs between them, and Bucky’s amazed at how quickly everything’s shifted. A minute ago it was Steve under scrutiny, it was him shrinking away from Bucky’s gaze. All of a sudden it’s switched. Bucky hears Steve turn around but doesn’t look at him, just wriggles in his chair.

And he knows this is the day. This is when it’s all going to hell.

Because this happens every time Bucky gets close to someone, whoever they are. They get to a point where they’ve had enough of Bucky shying away from anything with an ounce of sincerity. They get sick of his pretending, of the way he hints at insecurities but never actually says anything real. So they ask, outright, what’s wrong with him? Why won’t you talk to me? What happened with your family? Doesn’t it _hurt_?

It’s not like it’s anything that bad, really, but after that conversation, when information is squeezed out of him like toothpaste is squeezed out of its tube, nothing really feels comfortable again. Sure, on the surface everything goes on as normal, but Bucky feels too exposed and it terrifies him. Like he’s been hollowed out. Like they expect him to break at any moment. Like they know everything, like they can see all his secrets, even the ones he didn’t share.

It’s his own fault, really. He got too close to Steve too quickly. Spending that much time together was a mistake- he should have drawn it out so it wasn’t over within a month.

But there’s nothing he can do. The conversation’s coming whether he likes it or not. Which he doesn’t.

“If you ever wanna talk…” Steve says, uncertain.

“Yeah, I know where to find you,” Bucky says, shoulders tensing.

There’s a pause. “Bucky?”

Oh shit. Here it comes.

“Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but you can’t keep bottling it up like this. You gotta talk to someone. And I’m not saying it has to be me, but you have to-“

“Can we not, Steve?” Bucky’s voice comes out strained and tired, like he’s being stretched on the inside, as his nails dig into his palms. “I get it, you wanna know what’s up with me but just… Not tonight, okay? Not tonight.”

He’s pleading. He’s begging Steve to let it last a little longer, if that’s even possible. Steve can see it on his face, hear it in his voice. God, you could see it from space. Bucky knows he’s pathetic, he fucking _knows_ , but he doesn’t care because he doesn’t have the energy; not after the day, the week, the year he’s had.

And then something strange happens.

Steve walks right up to him and wraps his arms around his shoulders, putting a hand on Bucky’s head and pushing it gently into his neck.

 _Oh._ Well, he didn’t see that coming.

For a moment he thinks Steve’s having another one of his fevers, but then he realises that he’s the one that’s shaking, not Steve.

“It’s okay,” the kid says softly, rubbing circles between Bucky’s shoulder blades. “Whenever you’re ready, pal.”

It’s surreal. Bucky has no idea what to do.

It takes him an uncomfortably long time to relax in Steve’s arms, and he blames that on how unusual this is for him, how unexpected. He’s a little surprised that Steve continued to hold onto him for that long, considering how tense he was, but then he remembers that Steve never backs down from a fight and that makes him smile.

He wonders why he’s shaking but then he realises he doesn’t want to think about why, he doesn’t want to think about that, so he just pillows his head on Steve’s shoulder, hiding in the fabric of his ratty old shirt. He stays there, wrapped up in Steve’s bony embrace with his own hands clasped loosely behind Steve’s back, until the shaking stops and his breathing’s back under control.

It’s awkward when they break apart, as Bucky processes what just happened. He tells himself that nothing happened, and it didn’t, really. Nothing much happened at all. Except it did.

Bucky barely sleeps a wink that night.

***

(Three days later, the cold takes one of the homeless kids who sometimes sleeps in the lobby. Bucky helps burry her (which is hard, because the ground’s frozen solid), and only three people show up to the tiny funeral they’ve thrown together; him, Steve and a fella from downstairs. None of them know the girl’s name. She can’t be more than sixteen. When they find her, her shoes have already been taken.

Steve’s a praying man (which Bucky thinks is stupid, because if God’s so powerful he woulda saved that girl, wouldn’t he?) so he says the words. Well, he says the traditional words, anyway. The ones from the Bible. When it comes to saying something personal though, something real, it’s down to Bucky.

“Um,” he begins, articulate as always. He addresses the mound of dirt, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I- I don’t know you. Don’t even know your name. I don’t know whether you had a family, or if you’re the last of ‘em. I’ve never heard you speak. I don’t know what you look like without the death clouding your eyes, which is sad, because I bet they were pretty. I wish I could say something about your life, because you deserve that much, but I don’t know nothin’ about you. Not you when you were alive, anyway.

“But I do know about your death. I know about what it means to us.” He glances at Steve, who has his eyes closed, head bowed, and he’s shivering so hard he’s gone blurry.

“See, you’re something of an… inspiration. Maybe that’s not the word. You stop me from giving up, is what I’m saying. Sometimes I start to think what the point of it all is; I start to wonder if it wouldn’t be better if I curled up on the rail tracks and waited for a train to put me out my misery, but then I see poor fucks like you and we remember why we keep moving. We keep moving because if we don’t we’ll end up another corpse, stinking on the sidewalk with dogs pissin’ on us. You only realise how beautiful life is when you see the ugliness of death- and damn, you look ugly as sin. No offence.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is, I don’t ever want to end up like you, and that’s why you’re so important. You scare me, kid. You scare me half to death, and how’s that for irony?” There’s a pause. Steve’s head is still bowed low. “I’ll never forget you,” Bucky says, “no matter how hard I try- and trust me, I’ll try. I’ll spend my whole damn life tryin’.”)


	7. Chapter 7

“Let’s do something fun,” Steve says. They’re both sprawled out on the couch, each one taking up a different end, their feet meeting in the middle. Steve’s drawing something while Bucky’s just staring at the ceiling, wondering how that stain got there. _How do you even manage to stain a ceiling?_

“Like what?” Bucky says.

“I don’t know. What do you like?”

Bucky thinks about this for a while but he can’t come up with anything. All the things he likes are abstract things, like safety or financial security or not being alone. “Why do I have to come up with the activity?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Because we’ve done all the stuff I wanna do.”

Bucky scoffs. “Like what?”

“Going to the park. Sketching.” It’s really only those two, but everything else Steve wanted to try was way beyond their budget (of nothing). That means it’s Bucky’s turn.

Honestly, he thinks the whole thing’s just morbid. He knows the only reason Steve’s doing this is because his illness is getting worse, and it’ll only be a matter of time before he can’t leave the apartment anymore. He struggles enough as it is- his fever spells are getting longer and more frequent and sometimes he gets headaches that are so bad he stops being able to see. It’s like Steve’s trying to pack it all in before he becomes housebound (or worse), and every time they do something nice together it reminds Bucky that in a few days they won’t be able to.

Still, it keeps Steve happy. And he only gets one day off a week from work- he might as well make the most of it.

“I don’t know. I’m no good at thinkin’ of crap like this.”

Steve sighs. “That’s just because you aren’t trying.” He kicks Bucky’s thigh. “Come on. What did you do with Christine? Y’know, except piss all your money away.”

“Talk, mostly,” Bucky says, without enthusiasm. “She liked talking. And reading, we did that a lot too.”

“We don’t got any books, Buck.”

“Yeah, I know that. That’s why I didn’t suggest it.”

They fall into silence as Bucky thinks. Steve wedges his cold feet under Bucky’s back.

He thinks about Christine. God, he must have had some hobbies. What did they do all day? The talked and read and ate, mostly, except on Saturdays when- Oh, that’s an idea. Bucky smiles. “I like dancing,” he says, tilting his head towards Steve, who looks repulsed.

“Dancing?”

“Yeah. Dancing.”

"I didn’t know you could dance,” Steve says in an accusatory tone, like he’s saying “I didn’t know you go around murdering kittens in your spare time.”

“Yeah, well. I can. You telling me you don’t dance?”

Steve shrugs. “Nah. I don’t listen to music.”

Bucky throws himself upright, crushing Steve’s feet in the process. “What, never?”

“Bucky, ow,” Steve whines, wriggling his toes away. “No, not often. I get bored after a while.”

“You get _bored_?” Bucky says, incredulous. He throws his hands up in an exaggerated gesture of finality. “That’s it,” he says, “I’m taking you dancing.”

“Bucky, I’m no good at dancing,” Steve complains, rolling off the couch.

“So? I’m no good at drawing and we did that.”

“Yeah but…” Steve searches for a good argument. He doesn’t find one. “I don’t wanna.”

Bucky points at him, grinning. “That’s a mighty shame, pal, because we’re doing it.”

“Bucky-“

“No, too late. It’s been decided.” He grins at Steve, who sends a tiny smile back. Steve’s trying to hide it but the second-hand excitement must be getting to him. Jeez, Bucky hasn’t been dancing in _ages_.

“Fine,” Steve says, then points a finger at him, “but I am not going anywhere crowded, and I am not picking up any dames. You got that?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I got it. On come on, Stevie, it’s gonna be swell.” Steve doesn’t look convinced. Bucky sighs and drapes him arm over Steve’s shoulders. “Let’s go pick out something to wear.”

***

So they go dancing.

Or at least, they try to.

Bucky spends a long time on his hair. It’s been a long time since he got to dress up, to look nice for anything. God, he hasn’t even had a chance to get clean for a week. He shuts himself in the bathroom (he can’t lock the door because the lock’s broken) taking his time shaving, combing his hair, making sure the collar of his shirt sits right. He whistles as he goes through his ablutions, relishing the feeling of being fresh and smart for the first time since he moved out of Christine’s place.

“Hey Buck, you done yet?”

“In a second.”

“We’re supposed to be leaving now.”

Bucky grins at himself in the mirror. “I thought you didn’t wanna go?”

He can hear Steve’s frustrated huff on the other side of the door. “Just come on already.”

He knows Steve hates the idea, but Bucky thinks he’ll enjoy it. The kid’s great with people- the only reason he isn’t the most popular guy around is because he doesn’t want to be. He just needs someone to force him out. Right now Bucky can tell that Steve’s impatient to go, to get it over with, and Bucky supposes that he should indulge him.

“Fine, fine. I’m coming out.”

The look that Steve gives him when he steps out the bathroom is pure disbelief. Bucky swears his jaw actually drops. He looks Bucky up and down several times, and finally meets his eye. “You’re kidding,” he says, flatly.

Bucky tries not to blush, but he guesses it doesn’t work. “What?” he asks, caught between being smug and self conscious.

Steve’s expression shifts from one of amazement to one of great annoyance and his shoulders drop. “You’re showing up like _that_ and I’m showing up like _this_? Aw jeez, I’m gonna look even worse next to you.”

Bucky’s cheating a little- his suit is one from Christine, as all the nice things in his life seem to be at the moment- and he knows it’s far above what this area’s used to. Steve’s suit is less impressive- poorly fitting and cheaply made, with the hem coming undone at the sleeve and one button that’s hanging on by a thread. Still, he doesn’t look bad. His hair’s combed nice and his shoes are shiny, and in this light his eyes are so bright they’re practically glowing.

“Aw Steve, don’t say that. You look handsome.”

Steve scoffs, turning away. “I do not. I’m skinny and sickly and pale-“

“Steve, for fuck’s sake,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. “Can we just go? You look beautiful, trust me.”

He knows the second the word rolls off his tongue that he’s fucked up.

If he were a normal person and if he were thinking straight, he’d just laugh it off and correct himself. But apparently his head’s doing its best to sabotage him and he just stands there with this panicked look on his face. He tries to keep cool and carry on like he hasn’t said anything, but Steve’s just staring at him with this wide blue stare, his shoulders set. Oh fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

He blames his natural charm. Sometimes he's so darn smooth he can’t control it, or something like that.

Steve clears his throat. “Yeah, okay,” he says, his words sounding too casual, “let’s go.”

_Fuck._

Bucky doesn't know what to say as he locks up his apartment. They start walking down the hall in silence. They’re half way down the stairs, Bucky’s shiny black shoes echoing off the tile, when Bucky’s hand meets Steve’s on the rail. It’s an accident, that’s all it is, and for the first few seconds he thinks he’s gotten away with it, ‘cause it’s not like they haven’t touched hands before. Then Steve flinches, his jaw going rigid, and Bucky feels the weight in his gut get ten times larger.

Then Bucky hears Rumlow's low whistle, and he’s torn between feeling relieved that it wasn’t him that made Steve freeze and pissed off that Rumlow picked this time to show up.

“You don’t scrub up half bad, James,” Rumlow says from where he’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, that characteristically dangerous smile on his face.

Bucky glances at Steve who’s got hatred written all over him, before he plasters on a smile and says, “thanks. Steve and I are just heading out.”

“Yeah? Off to find a dame or two?”

Bucky swallows, shifts his hand on the stair rail.

It’s lucky that Steve answers for him. “It’s not that kinda night, Rumlow.”

Rumlow's gaze switches to Steve, and his face twists, like’s he looking at something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “Then what kind of night is it?” he asks.

"We're just gonna get some drinks, meet a few friends,” Bucky says before Steve can say anything.

Rumlow looks between them, opening his mouth like he wants to say something before forcing it closed again. “Well then,” he says, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You two have fun.”

The moment Rumlow’s turned away Bucky clasps a hand over Steve’s shoulder and steers him down the rest of the steps and out of the building.

"You see what I mean?" Steve says, shrugging Bucky's hand off. "He’s a jerk.”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah. He’s a jerk.”

They've got quite a way to walk to the club, and they fill the time talking about anything- cars, baseball, work- whilst carefully avoiding _those_ topics- girls, family, Rumlow. It’s fairly easy to slip back into those comfortable, familiar conversations, even after all the slip ups and accidental confessions they’ve had over the past few weeks (which is an embarrassingly large amount).

Bucky doesn't know what happens to him when it comes to Steve. He finds himself getting increasingly _clumsy_ , dropping secrets and failing catastrophically to gather them back up again, even after all the practice he’s had. When he’s with Steve he finds himself relaxing too much, letting his guard fall away almost completely. It’s almost like-

But he refuses to think about that now.

He finally crawls back out of his own head, and that’s when he realises neither of them have spoken for several minutes. He knows why _he_ was silent, but Steve…

He glances to his right and sees Steve trembling, head down, hands in his pockets. The colour’s gone from his face and his breathing’s just that little bit more raspy than normal, just the wrong side of healthy.

“Shit, Steve, you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Steve says, like he has so many times before. Bucky frowns.

“Do you wanna sit down? Take a break for a bit?”

“Nah, I’m fine,” Steve says, the syllables wavering. “I’ll sit down when we get there.”

He knows Steve hates it when he double checks (“Steve? Are you sure? Steve?”) so he decides to trust him. In truth he knows Steve’s in a bad way and that they should be heading back to the apartment, and maybe it’s denial that keeps him walking forward with Steve

dragging himself along behind him. Bucky doesn’t want to believe he’s ill anymore than Steve does.

They’re only two minutes away from the hall when Steve stops in the middle of the sidewalk and mumbles, “Bucky?”

It’s all the warning he gets before Steve’s throwing up in the gutter, his body shaking so hard Bucky thinks he might fall apart. Bucky rushes over and places a hand on his back, steadying him as coughs up everything in his stomach. In the end there’s nothing to throw up, so he just retches and spits green bile.

"'M sorry,” he mumbles as Bucky hooks an arm around his waist and practically carries him back along the street.

“Hey, don’t be an idiot,” Bucky says, forcing a grin. He uses his spare arm to ruffle the kid’s hair. “You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

Steve doesn’t leave his room for a month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments and kudoses. You people are the best. Any more thoughts, I'd love to hear them. 
> 
> If anyone wants to hunt for my tumblr- I wouldn't, it isn't that great- just to chat or something you can find me at emiliahparton (yeah, I'm not too imaginative with usernames). I'd hyperlink it but, to be honest, I don't actually know how. Sorry. 
> 
> And thank you to Feelsvomit, who has helped me out despite being away and not having wifi. I love ya man. 
> 
> Next chapter up soon, hopefully. Laters.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo. Me again. 
> 
> Thank you for all the really nice comments on the last chapter. I really am so grateful. Keep on letting me know what you think. 
> 
> Thanks and enjoy?

“Bucky?”

“Huh…?”

“Bucky.”

He opens his eyes then drops them closed again, protecting himself from the burning light and the silvery marks it leaves on his vision. He lifts his head from the hand that’s acting as his pillow and turns to see Natasha, looking smart and clean and rested- the polar opposite of Bucky.

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, his voice still rough from sleep. He rubs a hand over his face.

She frowns at him, her expression smothered in pity. “You look like shit,” she observes.

“Thanks,” he says, standing and stretching his arms up so he can get some feeling in his joints again.

Natasha lowers her voice, like they’re discussing a secret. There’s no need; Steve’s out cold. “How is he?” she asks.

Bucky glances at the figure on the bed, almost lost among the sheets and blankets Bucky has wrapped around him. His breath rattles.

“No change,” Bucky says, sighing. “He managed to eat something earlier, but God knows if he’s going to keep it down.”

Natasha studies the kid, a tiny frown disturbing the usual blankness of her expression. She reaches out for Bucky’s arm, squeezing it gently. “He’ll get better. He always does.”

Bucky just grunts.

She turns to face him. “I mean it,” she says with conviction. “You haven’t seen this happen to him before but I have. He’s been worse.”

“Yeah,” is all Bucky says. He’s too exhausted to make it sound any more convincing.

“Go and rest,” she says. “I’ll watch him, okay?”

He nods and pads out the bedroom, marvelling at how cool the air is out here. He throws himself down on the couch, leaning his head on the armrest and curling his feet up behind him. He breathes in. Holds. Breathes out.

He doesn’t care what Natasha says- what Steve’s got is serious. Jesus, Bucky’s never seen anyone so sick. When _he_ gets a cold it’s just a few days of sneezing and a

sore throat- not this. Becca was sick once- properly sick- and even then she was only ill for a week. Steve’s been in that bed for nearly a month now, and he’s only getting worse.

He’s beginning to feel very, very afraid.

He’s had to quit his job at the factory. He’d tried pleading with them, asking if he could take some extra vacation until Steve recovered, but after a week it was very clear that it was gonna take longer than a few days for Bucky to return. He doesn’t regret his decision. Someone has to look after Steve, no matter how much the kid insists he doesn’t.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he croaks, as Bucky holds him up on his way to the bathroom. “Jeez, all this fussin’ over me- it’s embarrassing. I can do it myself. Go home, Bucky, get some sleep.”

He’s damn right- it is embarrassing. Bucky looks in the opposite direction as Steve pisses. “You know I can’t do that, pal.”

Steve’s humiliation turns to anger, and there’s a moment when he gives Bucky a look so filled with hate that he actually flinches. But anger takes too much energy, so after a moment he lets Bucky carry him back to bed. 

(The kid’s so much lighter than he should be-)

“Hey, when’s ma coming?” he mutters sleepily as Bucky tucks him in.

That’s how Bucky knows it’s serious, because Natasha tells him that’s never happened before. Steve’s been weak and maybe he’s hallucinated a little when the fevers have peaked, but he’s never got something that wrong. Never got so sick that he asks after his dead mother.

***

Bucky doesn’t like asking for money. He understands the irony, considering everything that happened with Chrissy, but that was different. He didn’t have to actually ask for that. He never had to go up to her father and plead for a new suit or a new car or a new apartment. He’d just had to play the part- and he’d done that flawlessly. On a better day, he may even go as far as to say he _earned_ those dollars.

But this is different. This involves physically walking up to Natasha and begging for money, anything she can spare. Maybe he’s not as proud as Steve but he still has some dignity, and he hates how small his voice is when he says, “He needs a doctor, Natasha.”

She looks down at her hands. She’s embarrassed for him. She knows what’s coming. “I know he does,” she says.

“But I’m-” He pauses to collect himself, taking a deep breath. “Fuck, I’m broke. Me and Steve- neither of us got nothin’. I wouldn’t ask unless-“

She holds a delicate hand up and he stops. “Oh Bucky,” she sighs, and he can’t help the small wave of irritation at her tone. ( _I’m not a fucking child-_ ) “If I had anything to spare, don’t you think I’d have given it already? Steve’s one of my best friends.”

Bucky swallows, his pulse rising. “You gotta have something,” he says, and he reeks of desperation.

She looks so sad, so sorry, and he knows then that she can't have anything- she's scraping the barrel already. “I’m sorry Buck. We just have to hope that he can fight this on his own.”

Which would be fine, except he knows Steve can’t fight this because it’s so much bigger than normal. He can tell by the way she looks at Steve that this isn’t just his run-of-the-mill sicknesses. It’s stronger. It’s deadly.

He scrubs a hand over his face and does his best to ignore the burning behind his eyes and the tightness in his throat. She doesn’t ask him if he’s okay or offer any kind of false sympathy, and he’s immeasurably grateful. He eventually pulls himself together and straightens up, meeting her balanced, calculated gaze with one of his own. “You better get back to the café,” he says. “I’ll look after him.”

She rests a hand on his arm for a moment, then heads out the apartment.

He drags himself into Steve's room and takes the chair by the side of the bed, resting his elbows on the sheets.

“Bucky?” says the tiny voice under the covers.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Bucky says, the syllables dragging.

Steve’s arm rises over the covers, reaching blindly across the bed until his hand finds Bucky’s. His grip is impossibly weak, painfully fucking frail, and Bucky’s chest turns to lead. “You okay there?”

“Mhm,” Steve grunts, and tugs limply on his hand. There’s a pause, then, “you should go,” he says. 

"Nah, I'm good here."

“There’s no point stayin’ with me. I’m not getting better.” He sucks in some more air. “You need to go.”

And there’s something _terrifying_ in his tone. Like… resignation. Like he’s giving up. Like a _goodbye_.

God fucking dammit, Bucky is _not_ doing that.

“What the hell are you saying?” he asks and he tries very hard to stop his voice from shaking. It ends up coming out high and desperate.

“You know what I’m saying. I’m not getting better.”

Bucky panics, gripping the blankets and wrenching them back just so he can get a look at Steve’s face- like he needs to know he’s still there. Steve’s hit by a wave of cold and he whines, curling in on himself a little more. “Steve?” Bucky pleads, “Steve, look at me.”

The kid reluctantly opens his eyes, pupils shrinking in the daylight. He’s so goddamn _small_.

“You’re okay, Stevie. I swear, you’re okay.” Bucky refuses to say _you’re going to be okay_ because that sounds like a lie- that’s what people say when things _aren’t_ going to be okay- and that’s not what this is. He can’t be lying, he can’t be.

“’M cold,” is all Steve says, pulling on Bucky’s fingers again. “Bucky.”

"Okay, okay. I’m getting the blankets.”

“No, _Bucky_.”

Oh. Bucky finally understands what Steve wants and can’t do anything but oblige, climbing on the bed next to him. He curls around Steve’s shaking form, tugging the covers over both of them. It’s so damn warm under here that Bucky feels like he’s gonna boil, but Steve’s still shivering so he just wraps him up tighter, draping an arm over his ribs.

“That better?” Steve responds by shuffling forward, tucking his head under Bucky’s chin and squeezing his arm.

Bucky listens to Steve’s watery breathing for a while, and he’s just about to fall asleep when Steve says, “you said you’d tell me what’s wrong.”

Bucky does his best to stay focused, but the heat of the bed, the comfort of the blankets and the exhaustion of the past few days are trying their best to lull him to sleep. “What?” is his groggy reply.

“Weeks ago. You said you didn’t wanna do it then, but you’d tell me.”

Oh, that. Dammit.

Bucky groans. “Jesus, Steve. You really wanna do this _now_?” He feels the kid go tense against his chest.

"I want you to tell me.” There’s a pause. “Y’know, before…”

Bucky does not like the way that sentence is going. Anger tears through him, coming from a place even he doesn’t recognise. “Before what, Steve?” he demands, and realises too late that it’s difficult to sound aggressive whilst cuddling. He shuffles back, wriggling until he’s free from the blankets. When he’s upright and he feels like some of his dignity is restored, he repeats, “before _what_?”

Steve doesn’t answer.

Fuck. When _Steve Rogers_ has stopped hoping, that’s when you know things are bad. Fuck fuck fuck.

He’s fully panicking now, his heart racing and his head pounding. Steve can’t say that, can’t give up now. Not when he’s pretty much the only friend Bucky has, barring Natasha, and she doesn’t really count considering she only sees him when she comes over to look after Steve. He knows it’s selfish- worrying about how lonely _he’s_ going to be when Steve’s the one at risk, but hell, Bucky’s a selfish guy. Steve knew that when he started talking to him; he knew what he was getting into. He only had to look at the Christine incident to figure out-

Christine.

_Christine._

_Desperate times, desperate measures,_ Bucky thinks.

“I’m going out for a while,” he says.

He watches Steve (very slowly) push himself onto his elbows. The kid’s doing his best not to look hurt, but there’s a sad sort of confusion on his face. “Okay,” he says slowly.

“No, look,” Bucky says, holding a hand out in an attempt to reassure him. “I’ll be back soon, okay? I’ll get Natasha to come over.”

“You don’t need to get her. I’m fi-“

Bucky’s out the door before he can finish his sentence.


	9. Chapter 9

So Christine kept the apartment, then. Bucky kind of assumed she’d move out after everything that happened, but then he can’t blame her for staying. This is the best building for miles, and it took a lot of negotiation to get their hands on it. Good for her. 

He forgets about the doorman until he’s rounding the corner and sees him, standing beside the glass door with his back so straight Bucky can only assume he was born with a rod up his ass. It would make a lot of sense. 

He wonders whether the doorman knows about what happened. News travels fast among the wealthy, and he doesn’t doubt that everyone in the building heard the story; he just doesn’t know whether that extends to the staff. 

“Mr Barnes,” the doorman greets, with a distinct air of sarcasm. He raises an eyebrow. “Something tells me you weren’t invited.”

Okay, so he definitely knows what happened. 

“Fuck off, pal. This is important.”

He expects the man to look surprised, but he only looks mildly irritated. “Charming.”

Bucky continues walking, and doesn’t so much as pause until the doorman glides into his path, barring his way. Bucky steps to the side and the doorman follows, over and over, until it’s turned into some ridiculous dance. Bucky huffs, stopping his sidestepping to glare at the man. “Really?” he says, and he hold his arms out in exasperation. “You fucking kidding me?” 

“Say what you want. You’re not getting in this building,” the doorman responds, eyes alight with smug defiance. 

Bucky sighs again as his lip curls in annoyance. He steps forward and shoves the guy in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards into the wall. Bucky grabs his collar and twists, pressing his arm into him and pushing his face in close. 

Bucky isn’t a sadistic guy, and he doesn’t enjoy the look of fear the doorman gives him, even if he knows it’s well-deserved. Okay, maybe a little bit. “I really do not have time for this,” he says in a low voice, doing his best impersonation of threatening. “Let me in the fucking building.”

There’s a moment of fiery silence, then fear gives way to annoyance and the doorman pushes Bucky away. He smoothes out his uniform. “I never did like you, Barnes,” he mutters as he pulls the door open. 

Bucky grins at him as he steps through. 

He makes his way across the foyer, and when he reaches the stairs he hears the doorman shout after him, “I’m still calling security.”

Bucky holds up his middle finger as he begins the climb to the third floor. 

***

It’s not until he’s standing outside Christine’s front door that he realises he has no idea what he’s going to say. Jesus, where does he even start? Is he supposed to apologise, or is it too late for that? He’s very aware that he can’t just knock on her door and ask for meds, not after all that’s happened between them. Jeez, she’s going to take one hell of a lot of convincing. He’s smooth, sure, but he’s not _that_ smooth. 

Oh fuck it. He’s got nothing to lose, anyway. 

He raises his fist and knocks twice, then steps back and waits for the door to open. He hears movement from inside, and tries to wipe the sweat on his palms off on his shirt. 

The door swings open, and the smile falls off her face instantly. He finds himself smiling anyway- she’s just as pretty as he remembers. “Hi,” he says, as brightly as he can. 

“Oh fuck, it’s you,” she says, and he’s starting to remember why he liked her. 

“Christine,” he says, his voice all breathy with relief, or something like that. “Yeah, it’s-“

Then the door slams in his face. He doesn’t really know what more he expected. 

Still, he refuses to have walked all the way down here (five fucking miles in shoes that were more hole than leather) just to be turned away. He knocks again. No reply. 

Knocks. “Christine?” Silence on the other side of the door.

And again, knock knock. “Chrissy, I need to talk to you.” Silence. 

Knocks. “Chrissy?” Nothing. 

“Go away, Bucky,” she yells from deep inside the apartment. Well, at least the lines of communication are open. 

“Christine, please. This is important.”

“Go away.”

"Chrissy-“

“Get fucked.”

He sighs, slamming his fist against the door frame. “For God’s sake, will you just open the goddamn door?”

He’s surprised when the door actually does open, and relief washes over him. 

Her face is dark, her red lips drawn in a tight, angry line. “You picked a really fucking bad time to show up. I have people over,” she snaps. 

He holds his hand up in surrender. “I know, but I won’t be long. I just need-“

“If you’re going to apologise, don’t bother,” she says, folding her arms. 

Bucky swallows. “I’m not going to apologise,” he says quickly. He sees her eyes narrow, and he knows that wasn’t the right thing to say. “Oh, fuck. I don’t mean that. I mean I would apologise- I should- but that’s not… I mean, I _am_ sorry but, that isn’t what I came here to say.”

_Oh that’s real smooth, Barnes_ , he thinks. 

“I’ve already heard what you have to say, Bucky. I don’t care.”

Bucky shakes his head. “No, but this isn’t about… what happened.”

She rolls her eyes. “Then what is it about?”

Shit, here goes. He takes a deep breath. “Look, I’m- Well, I’m sort of fucked.” She raises her eyebrows at that. “I had to leave my job and I’ve got no money, and I got this friend-“

“So you came here to ask me for money,” she says flatly, he fingers curling around her arms. 

“No,” he says. “Well, technically, yeah, but-“

He’s not surprised that she closes the door on him. If he were in her position he’d probably do the same thing. 

He sighs and starts the whole thing again, knocking and getting no reply then knocking again. It’s humiliating, standing out here, but he knows this is his last hope. He has to keep trying. 

"What?” she demands when she pulls the door open. She looks like she did on that night at the restaurant- like she’s _this close_ to ripping his face off. 

This time, he doesn't bother with the pleasantries. “This isn’t for me, okay? It’s for a friend- Steve. Steve Rogers. See, he’s sick. Like, really sick. I mean, I don’t-“ He pauses, glances down at his shoes before he looks up at her. “He’s a strong kid, he doesn’t go down easy, but I don’t know if he can fight this on his own.” 

He looks to see if any of this is soaking in but Christine just blinks at him, arms folded. He carries on talking just to fill the silence. “I had a job, at this factory, but when he got ill… Someone had to look after him and they wouldn’t keep me on if I couldn’t work. We’re almost out of everything- food, money. If I can’t pay the rent they’ll kick us both out the apartment. And that’s before I even start thinkin’ about a doctor- which he needs pretty fuckin’ badly. I’m getting help from his friend, but she can’t stay all the time and-“ He stops again, but she’s still wearing that blank look. He feels his chest going cold, the desperation raking at his insides. His eyes fall closed for a moment, and when he opens them he finds his hands have curled into fists and his jaw has tensed. “Am I wasting my time here? Do you care at all?”

She doesn’t even blink. “You tell me you love me, take half my money, leave me on the night I propose to you then show up at my door two months later asking for help,” she says. Her tone is still eerily calm. “I hardly think I’m being unreasonable.” 

She has a point.

But she hasn’t sent him away yet, and he decides to take that as positive sign. “I know,” he says, “trust me, I know I’m a piece of shit, but that isn’t his fault. You can take it out on me-“ He finds himself laughing bitterly- “If it helps, I’ve been a fucking mess since I left- but you can’t take it out on him. He’s a good kid, better than me. He- he deserves to... well, to live.”

She eyes him, and there’s not much anger in her expression anymore, but there’s certainly a lot of suspicion. It’s almost like the one Steve gave him, lifetimes and lifetimes ago. 

Eventually she asks, “how come you never mentioned him? This friend?”

Bucky realises that she thinks he’s making Steve up just to get more money out of her, and the thought drives a new spike of guilt through his stomach. “We just met- the night after- after the restaurant.” Bucky smiles despite himself and says, “he’d got himself into a fight so I helped him out. God, he was bleedin’ everywhere and he still insisted he was fine.” He looks down at his shoes. “He still says he’s fine now, even though he can hardly stand.”

Her features soften slightly, and he thinks he’s almost convinced her. Almost. He digs around in the pocket of his pants until he finds the small pice of paper, folded so many times you can barely see the picture for all the thick white creases. He unfolds it carefully, trying not to tear it, then hands it to her. 

“He drew this a while ago. It’s our view of New York. He likes drawin’ the city. He likes drawing people more but there’s only really me who he talks to in the building, and he’s drawn me so much he must be bored by now.” He watches Christine’s eyes scan over the paper, taking in each neat pencil tower. He points to the left of the page. “That’s us- that’s this block.” He smiles, and he thinks she just about smiles with him. 

"He's good," she says slowly, like she’s forgotten Bucky’s there. 

“Yeah, he’s real talented,” Bucky says, with some fondness seeping into his voice.

She passes the paper back to him and sighs. “Is he gonna die?”

He flinches at the bluntness of the question, the sheer force of it. “I- I dunno,” he says, his voice going quiet. “Maybe. If he doesn’t get treatment.” 

And then she finally gives in, her shoulders slumping and her face regaining the pretty softness that he remembers. _She used to smile so easily,_ he thinks. 

She glances behind her, back into the apartment. “Hold on,” she says, “I have company.” She ducks back through the door, and he hears talking. She steps out a few moments later and silently ushers him in. 

“Thanks, Chrissy,” he says, “I mean it, thank-“ He stops when he sees the man glaring at him with his insanely muscular arms folded. He looks murderous, and Bucky can’t really blame him. 

So Christine got a new man. 

Good for her. He’s cute. 

She doesn’t bother to introduce them, just grabs Bucky’s arm and pulls him into the bathroom. She’s nervous, he realises. He pulls the door to behind them; not open that New Man can hear their conversation, not closed that it looks suspicious. He stands awkwardly by the bath, trying to swat away the memories that are flooding in. 

Christine has a leather bag in her hand, and she opens a cupboard and starts loading little bottles into it. “I have painkillers, some pills to help with sickness. It’s not much, but it can help until the doctor gets there.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. “Doctor?” he says. 

She glances over he shoulder at him, and there’s a tiny smile on her face. God, she really is pretty. “My doctor,” she says, brushing some blond hair out her eyes. “He’s nice. I’ll give him a call after you leave, tell him I’ll pay for the treatment.” She turns back around and inspects the label of a brown bottle. 

The relief swells up inside him, and he grins at the back of her head. “Jeez Chrissy, are you sure? I bet that’s expensive.” 

She shrugs. “Everything’s expensive, these days,” she says brightly. “Besides, George-“ She waves towards the living room to show she means New Man- “George is wealthy in his own right. He owns a lot of land in Cleveland, rents some apartments here in the city. We don’t really need to worry about spending anymore.”

She turns to look at him with a hint of anxiety creasing her brow, like she’s worried what he thinks. “He a nice fella?” Bucky asks.

“Yes,” she says, and smiles. “Trust me, I checked this time.”

He finds himself laughing, although he doesn’t really know why. “Good. I’m happy for you, Chrissy.”

She looks pleased for a moment, but then her expression turns bitter. She tries to hide it by turning back to the cupboard but he knows her too well, and he recognises the tension in her shoulders. “Have you got a girl?” she asks, almost nonchalant. “I assumed you would have, by now.”

Bucky laughs, and he knows it pisses her off when he does that- doesn’t take her seriously- but he can’t help it. “Jesus, I’m not that bad,” he says. “No, I don’t have a girl. I don’t want anyone, not yet.” 

She turns to face him properly now, curling her legs up under her on the bathroom floor. The look on her face is something like… guilty. “I don’t want you to be lonely,” she says, very quietly. 

He never expected her to be so forgiving after everything that happened, and it’s easy to see how he lived with her for two years, why she was his best friend. “I’m not- I’m not lonely,” he says, eager to reassure her. “I got friends. I got Steve.” 

She looks at him then, really looks, and he fidgets under her gaze. He wants to tell her to stop but he feels like he owes it to her to let her look. He’s a guest, after all. 

Eventually she lowers her eyes to the leather bag on the floor, with this sickeningly _knowing_ smile. “Don’t worry, Bucky. He’ll get better.”

“Thanks, Christine,” he says, as sincerely as he can. “I’m sorry I had to come and bother you, I just didn’t know what else to do.” 

She starts to stand. “It’s okay, Buck.”

“No, I mean it,” he says, taking a small step towards her. “You didn’t have to let me in after what I did, and I had no right to come asking. But you’re good, Chrissy, you’re a good lady and I’m sorry that I hurt you and I never should’a-“ 

She holds her hand up, stopping him mid-sentence. “Stop it, James. I don’t want to hear you apologise.” 

He nods, lowering his head a little. “Yeah. Okay.” 

On the way out she hands him a hastily written check for thirty dollars and he does his best to thank her again, even though whatever he says doesn’t even begin to cover how much she’s helped him. 

“Don’t be a stranger,” she tells him at the door, but she sounds pretty reluctant.

“I live on the other side of town,” he says, in reassurance. “We’ll see.”

“Okay,” she says and smiles. “Well, goodbye then.”

He adjusts the bag on his shoulder. It’s heavy with bottles of pills and something digs into his back, but he’s not complaining. “Bye, Christine.” He peers over her shoulder. “Bye, George,” he calls. George doesn’t say goodbye back, just tenses his biceps. 

He gives her a final smile then starts back down the hall, his crappy shoes sinking into the plush carpets. He can’t wait to get home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge, HUGE thank you to everyone reading. You're all so encouraging and it means a lot. Hugs all round. Come find me at emiliahparton on tumblr and we can chat or cry or whatever.


	10. Chapter 10

“James Buchanan Barnes, where the hell were you?” she says, in a voice like steel. Oh _shit_. 

See, the main thing Bucky has learned from his time caring for Steve is that he should always expect the worst. With Natasha standing in front of him looking this angry, this emotional, Bucky can only assume one thing- Steve's taken a nose dive. Panic stabs behind his eyes. “I was just- Why? What do you mean? What’s happened?” he says, and it comes out all fast and squeaky. 

Natasha gets even angrier, if anything. “Nothing _happened_ , you _ass_ , except you running off without telling either of us where you were going or what you were going to do.” 

There’s a moment of intense relief, but then he takes in Natasha’s magnificent glare and does his best to look suitably terrified. “Sorry,” he says. 

Apparently the apology isn’t satisfactory. “Sorry?” she repeats, quietly incredulous. 

“ _Really_ sorry, then.”

She lowers her voice and steps closer to him, and why does he have a habit of making friends with terrifying women? “That won’t cut it, Barnes. Steve was starting to think you weren’t coming back.” 

She’s pissed. Really, really pissed. “No no, Jesus, no,” he says in a rush. “I was just trying to be fast. I-“ He shrugs the bag off his shoulder and holds it out to her- “I got meds. I got stuff for Steve.” 

She snatches the bag out of his hands and pulls it open. Her hand disappears inside, and she spends the next minute alternating between routing through the bag and glaring daggers at him. She searches every corner of the bag, closely inspecting each bottle, before she’s finally satisfied that he wasn’t trying to abandon them, and the tension drips from her. She looks relieved for a second- hell, he might even call her happy- but it’s no time at all before she reverts back to rage. “Don’t you ever do that again, you hear me? she says, pointing a stern finger at him, and he knows he definitely won’t. “Goddamn, why didn’t you tell us anything?”

Bucky shrugs and says, “I didn’t want Steve to know how I got ‘em.”

She tilts her head. “Why? Did you steal ‘em?”

“What? No,” Bucky says, a little offended. “I’ve been told I’d make a shit burglar.” 

“Then what did you do?” she asks, even though she doesn’t sound like she really gives a damn.

“I just had to ask a friend of mine,” he explains. “Well, beg. I don’t think his pride could’a taken it.” 

She nods knowingly, glancing behind her towards Steve’s bedroom. “Don’t talk to me about pride. If I have to deal with him telling me he’s fine one more time I’m gonna finish him off myself.” Bucky huffs a laugh and then she’s grabbing him roughly by the shoulder, pushing him forward. “Go see him. He’s missed you.” 

He shoots her a grateful smile as he grabs the bag and practically runs into Steve’s room. This is the happiest he’s been in weeks, and he can’t wait to share the moment with Steve. He throws the door open.

“Tell me you love me,” Bucky announces loudly as he enters. 

Steve’s pale, messy-haired face pops up from under the blankets, and he’s never seen the kid look so alarmed. “Bucky?” 

“You bet. Now tell me you love me.”

The alarm grows into full-blown fear. “What?” he wheezes, eyes wide. 

Bucky holds up the bag and grins. “I just got you the biggest load’a drugs this side of the black market.” He puts the bag down and routes through it, pulling out an amber bottle of painkillers and tossing it on the bed. It lands an inch away from Steve’s face. “Now tell me you fucking love me,” he demands, holding his arms out wide so can bask in Steve’s gratitude. 

Steve shakily pushes himself up. He’s not quite smiling, but his eyes are a little brighter than Bucky remembers them being before. “Where did you get these?” Steve asks, staring at the bottle. “Did you steal ‘em?”

Bucky’s arms fall to his sides and he pouts in mock offence. “Jesus, no. Why does everyone guess that?”

Steve’s head falls back on the pillow, dropping out of view. “Thank God,” he croaks. “You’d make a shit burglar.” 

Bucky doesn’t know why he laughs so hard. It’s probably all the relief hitting him at once, making him dizzy. By the time he stops giggling his sides hurt and his face is stuck in a grin. He flops down on Steve’s left and picks a pill out from the bottle. He helps Steve sit up and passes him the glass of water Natasha had put by the bed. After that he finds another pill and then another, until Steve is so drugged up it’s a shock he can still see straight. 

“I got you a doctor,” Bucky says an hour later, after Steve has tucked himself into Bucky’s side. He’s sitting against the headboard with Steve’s face on his hip, his little fist hanging onto Bucky’s shirt. 

“Hm?” Steve hums into his hip. 

“A doctor,” Bucky says. “He’s gonna sort you out.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” Steve mumbles, his words slurring slightly. 

Bucky smiles. “Yeah, I know, but this one’s free,” he says. “A friend of a friend.”

Steve grunts in response. 

“Hey, you still there, punk?” Bucky asks. He’s seriously considering stroking Steve’s hair, because it seems like the right thing to do in a moment like this, but he doesn’t know if it’s too weird. 

“Yeah,” Steve says. 

“No, but I mean are you still _there_? Y’know, have the pills got to you yet?”

“Hm.”

“Is that a yes or a no?” Bucky asks.

“My chest-“ he coughs- “still hurts.” 

“But does your head?”

He feels Steve smile. “Nah.”

So the drugs have started to take effect. Good. Bucky runs a hand through Steve’s greasy blond hair, his fingers getting caught in huge tangles. _He won’t remember this by tomorrow anyway,_ he thinks, and then realises how creepy that is and pulls his hand away. His arm feels awkward now, and it won’t settle anywhere. 

"Wha’ you doin’?” Steve slurs, and it occurs to Bucky that he can probably feel him uselessly flapping his arm about. 

“Nothin’, Steve,” he says. “I can’t get comfortable is all.”

“Sssorry,” Steve says, “you can go home, if you wan’.” His voice is raspy but he doesn’t sound pained, and Bucky thinks that’s some kinda miracle. 

“Nah, I’m happy here,” Bucky says, and he doesn’t even have to lie. 

He doesn't know why he starts talking, but the moment he does he realises this is the best time to do it. Why not tell his story now, when Steve’s all drugged up and sleepy and will have forgotten it all by the time he wakes up? 

It's a long story, and it takes him a while to get enough air in his lungs and strength in his chest to begin. But it makes sense to do it now. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be. 

“My ma met my dad when he was on leave,” Bucky starts. His voice is small but it manages to fill the tiny room. “He’d grown up in the army- was all but born into it- and while the rest of the officers went to visit their sweethearts or their families, my dad just hung around the barracks. Ma lived near there- she was still young, staying with her parents- and they met when she was out walkin’ some day. That’s that they told me, anyway.

“They got married and moved here and then I was born, and they were happy, so they said.” He laughs softly, humourlessly. “Can’t say if that’s true or not- I was too young to remember. I didn’t know dad that well. I was only two when the war broke out, and dad was off like a shot.” He shrugs. “It was his job; he had to go. He came back on leave in ’16 and nine months later Becca was born- that’s my sister, by the way. She didn’t know him either. My first memory of my dad is sayin’ goodbye to him at the station, with mum and baby Becca in tears, and him telling me I was a good kid, and I had to look after my sister until he got back. I don’t know how old I was. Four, maybe? Five?”

"When he got back after the war his head was all mixed up. War mixed everyone up. He heard things, saw people at night. Wouldn’t let us go into any rooms on our own in case there was something there. He was a career soldier- he’d seen people die before, he’d seen people murdered, but not like this. He was used to the deaths of soldiers, people who’d volunteered for the cause, built their life around it. But these were just kids. These were just kids with guns bein’ blown up all over the place. Pa had never seen anything like that before. 

“Becca was afraid of him, I think. Hell, I was a too, a little. We were livin’ in a house where my dad screamed and cried more than my two year old sister. He wet the bed more, too. Ma was so busy lookin’ after him she didn’t have time to take care of us two, or not much, anyway. She had to work, didn’t she? So I took care of Becca- washing her and feeding her and the like. Poor kid. She grew up just like me- it pissed me off most of the time.” He smiles, but he doesn’t know why. He’s not happy. It’s like he’s trying to convince himself that he’s still okay, even though it’s burning behind his eyes. “She was scared of dad, though,” he continues. “She hadn’t known him in his good days, not like mum had. She used to ask me why we had to hide all the knives from him, and then she found him sittin’ in the kitchen with blood spraying out of his leg and that spared me the job of havin’ to tell her. 

“She was the one who found him, in the end. She went to get ma’s ironing from the closet and there he was, hanging from the rail. Ma was at work so I had to drag her out the room. She wouldn’t stop crying. I can’t blame her- I couldn’t stop neither.”

There’s just the sound of Steve breathing next to him. Nothing else. 

“Ma didn’t want us to go to the funeral- said it would be too upsetting- so I stayed home with Becca. Ma said nothing when she got back. Hardly said a word for a week. Her madness wasn’t like pa’s; his was loud, angry. Hers was slow. At first she was just quiet and sad, but after a couple of years… She used to sit in the corner of her room, hugging her knees. She wouldn’t eat for days, half kill herself; piss where she sat, sometimes. Mostly I just ignored her. I know, I _know_ , I should have done something but I- I was a kid. I didn’t know what I was doing- how was I supposed to- and I could barely take care of me and Becca, without thinking of her too. 

“So I just kept my head down, didn’t do a goddamn thing, and when ma finally died it wasn’t really a surprise. She didn’t kill herself, exactly, just one morning I tried to get her out of bed and she wouldn’t wake up. And once you’ve seen one dead person you’ve seen ‘em all, ain’t you?” 

(He doesn’t say that her death was his fault, because it doesn’t need saying. Steve knows, if he’s still listening. He can work it out for himself.)

“We had relatives to stay with but, to be honest, Becca and I were better on our own. We had a stint on the streets at the start of the Depression, but so did a lot of people. We survived, which is more than some. Becca was smart, though. She made friends easily, learned quick. She was eighteen when she moved in with her fella, Simon. He’s a good man, I made sure of that. I think she’s happy. We don’t talk much no more, but I bet she’s happy. She’s too stubborn to have it any other way.”

He stops speaking and his ears ring in the silence. The air’s too goddamn thick to breathe. His whole body is tense, and he’s practically shaking with the effort of holding himself together. People always tell him that talking about it will make him feel lighter, _cleaner_ , but it never does. It just makes him feel like he’s turned to ice, every inch of him, and in a couple of hours when he starts to thaw he knows it will be the most painful thing in the world. 

"My ma died too," Steve says, and Bucky nearly jumps out of his skin. He hadn’t realised the kid was still awake, or at least assumed he’d stopped listening by now. “She got ill.” 

Bucky swallows. His throat feels smaller than anything. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry about,” Steve says, painfully quiet. 

“I know. But that’s what people say, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says. He shuffles closer, and if he knows Bucky’s crying he doesn’t say anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you. Another big thank you for reading/kudosing/commenting, and may I say that you are looking lovely today. 
> 
> Sorry for the kind of backstory-info-dump at the end of this chapter- I just didn't know how else to do it. I'd also like to apologise in advance because my next update may be a while. This chapter is kicking my ass. I hope you won't all be too mad at me if it's a couple of weeks. Cheers bro. Laters.


	11. Chapter 11

Bucky hasn’t had a nightmare in years, but he has one that night. 

There’s a room. His father hangs from the ceiling, stone cold and unmoving except for the eyes (a brilliant blue, like Steve’s eyes), which follow Bucky around as he walks. The man’s mouth opens and closes, like a goldfish, but no words come out. There’s no air left to make words with. Bucky runs towards his feet, reaching up as far as he can so he can help his father down, but his fingers hardly brush his bare toes, white as bone. He jumps, wraps his fingers around an ankle, and he’s about to climb up when he hears mumbling from behind him. 

“Bucky?”

His mother is curled up in the corner, just as grey-skinned as pa, with bright blue living eyes. She watches him, whispering his name, begging for help with a voice as weak as water. Running to her is like running through treacle, and it takes an age before he even gets close. His father is silent behind him. 

“Bucky!”

Becca is in the next corner, crying hysterically, just as dead as her parents and just as alive. She’s curled up on her side, her dark hair covering most of her face as she screams. He glances at his ma ( _I’m sorry, ma, I’m so sorry_ ) then changes course, wading through the stale air towards his sister. 

“Bucky.”

He’s almost there when the final voice comes, and this voice isn’t hazy and blurred at the edges like the others. This is sharp and clear, ringing in his skull, echoing even though it’s almost silent. Steve is curled up in bed, shivering, and while his eyes are bright and piercing the rest of him is all skin and bones, fading into the mattress. His hand is skeletal as it reaches out to him from under the covers. 

Bucky looks around the room, at the animate corpses, all calling out for him. He tries to move but he can’t, he can’t lift his feet, so he just stands and watches them while they watch him. He apologises to each of them, pleads for forgiveness, because he’s trying, he’s really trying, _I’m sorry, I can’t, I’m trying, I’m sorry-_

“Bucky!”

That’s the one that finally breaks him out of it, and he blinks and he’s in the real world again. He’s gasping, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead as the vision dies behind his eyelids. Steve’s leaning over him, one hand on his shoulder and _hell_ , his eyes are just the same. _They’re exactly the same._

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, in a voice that’s about an octave higher than normal. “Bucky, what’s happening? Are you okay?”

Bucky shakes his head and takes as many deep breaths as his nerves will allow. As soon as he feels like he can speak he says, “yeah, kid, I’m fine.” He aims for a reassuring smile, but Steve gets this look of terror on his face so he must have missed. “It’s a bad dream,” he says. “It’s nothin’ to worry about.” 

Steve doesn't look convinced. He hovers over Bucky until he physically can’t hold himself up anymore, then drops back onto the mattress. “You look scared, Buck,” he says quietly. 

Bucky shrugs. “I was,” he says. 

Steve bites his lip. “Was it about what you were sayin’ last night?”

Ah shit, Bucky hoped he’d have forgotten about that. He squeezes his eyes shut and drags a hand down his face. “Yeah, it’s about that,” he says, because there isn’t much point in lying. He doesn’t see Steve’s expression, but he’s guessing it’s smothered in pity. 

“D’you wanna talk about it?” Steve asks, and his voice is flat and quiet, without judgement. 

“Nah,” Bucky says, as he wipes the sweat of his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He’s done enough sharing for a lifetime. “Not like I never had a nightmare before; I can handle it.”

Steve grunts, unconvinced. Bucky ignores him and rolls out of bed, smoothing out his creased shirt. Jeez, he really should have changed before he got into bed with Steve. 

Oh shit, that’s not right. That makes it sound like- well, something it wasn’t. But how else could he phrase it? They were in bed together? Oh Jesus, no. Lay down with Steve? Slept with him? Fuck, that’s even worse. 

He scurries into the bathroom to piss, and then into the kitchen to get Steve more pills. Eventually he decides that there’s no point trying to put last night into words, because it’s not like he’s going to be telling anyone. Not that they did anything wrong, of course, and there’s absolutely no reason for him to feel as nauseous and ashamed as he does, but it’s still best if they keep it quiet. 

"Hey Buck?” Steve calls from the bedroom, and then proceeds to hack up a lung. Bucky grabs a quick glass of water and runs in, falling at Steve’s side. When the kid finally stops coughing he has the nerve to look mad. “What are you starin’ at?” he chokes out.

Bucky rolls his eyes and offers the water and the pills. Steve takes them reluctantly. “Nothing. What were you shouting about?”

Steve swallows all the tablets at once, wincing as he takes a huge gulp of water. His eyes flick up to Bucky and then away again. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Aw come on, Steve,” Bucky says, putting on his best smile. “Don’t leave a guy hangin’.”

Steve’s still staring at the bed sheets. “It’s just- don’t you get… tired? Of lookin’ after people, I mean.” 

Bucky frowns. Honestly, he’s never really thought about it before. He looks after people because he has to- it doesn’t matter whether he’s tired or not. It takes a while for him to dredge up a reply. “I don’t think so. No.” He finds an opportunity to deflect and puts on his most suggestive smile. “Ask any dame within a mile of here,” he says. “They’ll tell you I don’t tire easily.”

Steve doesn’t quite manage to laugh, but he still grins and shoves Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky barely feels the push but he moves with it anyway, pretending Steve’s still got some strength. Steve’s soon back to staring in his lap, though, chewing his bottom lip. “I just-“ he says, stumbling over the words. His mouth opens and closes, his eyes flicking over the blankets.

Then all of a sudden he gets this look on his face, like he’s made his mind up, and his jaw sets and his eyes lock onto Bucky’s, decisive and unwavering. “You know, you’re a good man, James Barnes.”

The guilt sticks in his throat like tar, because somehow he’s managed to fool Steve into thinking something that’s so far from the truth he doesn’t even know where to start correcting him. 

He laughs nervously. “Thanks,” he says. 

The rest of the morning goes well. Steve manages to eat at least a normal sized meal and drinks more water than he’s had in the last three days combined. He even gets out of bed for a while, taking a shaky tour around the room and only stopping every few moments to take a breath. Bucky knows it’s partly the pills, but he thinks there’s something else too, something like hope. Steve seems so much lighter, and there’s that unstoppable determination again. 

He looks happy. 

Or at least happier. 

***

The doctor shows up unannounced. Bucky goes to answer the door and there he is; dark skin and long coat and expensive briefcase. Bucky frowns at him, but the man’s still smiling. He must not realise how dangerous it is for a fella like him in a building like this. 

He holds out his hand. “Doctor Wilson, but Sam’s fine too,” he says, and Bucky shakes his hand hesitantly. “I’m guessin’ you’re Bucky.”

Bucky’s a little comforted by the lazy drawl of his speech, although the fancy outfit is still putting him on edge. He’s been living here too long- he’s starting to adopt the building’s trademark fear of outsiders. “Yeah, that’s me,” Bucky says, attempting his usual, lopsided grin. “I guess I wasn’t expecting you this soon, Sam.” 

Sam nods like he understands and says, “well, from what Christine told me, the patient needs seeing to pretty damn soon.” 

Bucky shrugs. “She’s right there. Why don’t you come in?” 

Doctor Sam doesn’t waste any time once he’s in the apartment. Bucky kind of expects him to criticise the conditions Steve’s been living in or make some snide comment about the size of the room, but he barely seems to notice it. He asks to see Steve and then he shuts the door and that’s the last Bucky sees of him for the next hour. 

Bucky spends the time pacing around the room, doing his best to distract himself. It doesn’t work. He wonders what’s taking so long in there, whether that’s a good sign or a bad sign, and tries to prepare for the worst. He’ll manage, whatever happens. If the treatment’s a fortune, he’ll beg and steal and scavenge until he gets enough. If it’s going to be years before Steve recovers, he’ll sit at Steve’s bedside until he does. If the worst happens and it turns out that Steve’s never going to get better… Well, he’ll do what he can. 

He hears Steve’s coughing fit through the door, and even though he knows they’ve happened so often that they shouldn’t terrify him anymore, he still flinches at the sound. He presses his ear to the wall, straining to make sure Steve’s still breathing. It’s ridiculous and he knows it, but he’s past caring. He blames Steve for having such a melodramatic cough. 

Steve must have survived, because Bucky can just about make out his voice; it’s thin and grainy, like he’s hearing it through static, but it’s still there. He can hear Sam’s, too, clearer and more solid, rumbling through the paper-thin walls. And yeah, Bucky knows it’s wrong to eavesdrop like this but he worried, and he can’t really help it, can he? He only catches fragments of Sam’s sentences, but it’s just enough to get an idea of how it’s going. 

“-don’t wanna get your hopes up—“

“-I’ll have to take you to see—“

“-brand new procedure—“

“-can’t make any promises here—“

(It feels like someone's wrapped barbed wire around his throat.)

“-I wouldn’t recommend it, but if you’re sure that’s—“

“-seems like a good guy, I know—“ 

“-not a problem. You’re welcome.”

Bucky hears the doctor coming his way and he barely has time to assume a look of complete nonchalance before the bedroom door opens. The doctor has his stethoscope slung around his neck, white coat draped over one arm, briefcase held in the other. Sam frowns at him, clearly not buying the way Bucky is leaning extraordinarily casually against the back of the couch, head tipped back and ankle twisted at an odd angle. “You okay there?” he asks.

Bucky sees the poorly-contained smile on Sam’s face and gives in, sighing as his body slumps against the surface. “You better have good news for me, doc,” he says. 

It could be coincidence that Sam hesitates, but it probably isn’t. “Good and bad,” Sam says, with a strange expression that manages to be both grim and reassuring. Bucky doesn’t know how he does it- it must be a doctor thing. “The bad news… all of Steve’s symptoms point to pulmonary tuberculosis.” He must be able to hear Bucky’s heart stopping, because he quickly continues. “No- I know that sounds bad, and I know you’ve heard a lot of things about TB, but treatment has come a long way in just a few years, okay? His chances are good.” 

Bucky swallows. He doesn’t know much about TB except what the headlines say; about the high death rates and the sanatoriums, where people go in and don’t come out.

“Good as in he’ll recover completely, or good as in he’ll see it through another year, if we’re lucky?”

Sam sounds sincere when he says, “Good as in, in a couple of month’s time, he’ll be good as new. Hell, maybe even better.” 

Bucky shakes his head. “How… how would that even be possible?”

Sam grins, and Bucky assumes that’s pride making him stand a little taller. “I got this colleague, Doctor Erskine, and he’s developed this… serum, I guess, which can cure pretty much anything. It’s some kinda wonder drug. I can’t tell you how it works, but I’ve already got investors linin’ up round the block. It’ll take away his TB- might even get rid of his asthma, too.” Sam pauses, eyes flicking over Bucky’s face. “You know, I sort of expected you’d be a little more excited about this.”

Bucky holds up his hands. “No no, I am, I am excited.” He drops his gaze for a moment, frowning at the floor. “It just sounds a little… too good to be true, right now.”

Sam smiles. “I thought so too,” he says, laughing in soft disbelief, “but here we are.”

(And Bucky desperately wants to believe him, he really does, but it’s all a little overwhelming. Maybe he’s just a pessimistic bastard, or maybe it has something to do with all that stuff he overheard- the stuff that definitely wasn’t as neat and tidy as what he’s being told now. Maybe it’s because of Doctor Wilson’s tone, which is so nearly reassuring, and yet…)

“You’re sure this is going to be okay?” Bucky says, sounding desperate and childish, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

Sam’s got this hard, determined look on his face, like the one that Steve gets before a fight, and Bucky finds it hard not trust him when he’s looking like that. “I’m sure,” he says. 

Bucky studies the doctor for a moment longer, eyes slightly narrowed, before he finally gives in. He lets himself feel relieved, and it’s like a dip in the pool after days in the desert, the way it washes over him. The fear that’s clung to him, that’s been poisoning every moment for the past five weeks starts to fade, and when he breathes in it feels like the first breath he’s taken since it all started. It’s only now that he realises how exhausted he is, how heavy- but also how _light_. He’s dizzy with it, and he finds himself laughing without knowing why. 

“Yeah, good,” he says, grinning at Sam. “That’s… Thank you.”

“No problem,” Sam says. “I’m booking him in with Doctor Erskine next week. He’s gonna run some more tests, sort out the dosage, that kinda thing.”

“Yeah. Okay.” 

“I gave Steve my contact details- just let me know if you got any questions.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, still grinning so hard it’s bordering on maniacal. “I mean it. I owe you one.”

Sam chuckles, all humble and self-deprecating. “I wouldn’t bother. It’s sorta my job.”

Bucky laughs, even though nothing’s very funny. 

Doctor Wilson checks his watch and makes a show of looking surprised. “Anyway, I better be goin’. I got a rich hypochondriac that I gotta refuse to treat for the third time this week.”

“Sounds wild,” Bucky says. “I’ll show you out.”

It’s a pointless gesture, seeing as it’s only about three strides to the door, but it feels like the right thing to do. He checks there aren’t any of those scary, supremacist fuckheads in the immediate vicinity before he lets Sam out. “Well, I’ll see you soon,” Bucky says, holding out his hand. “And thanks again.”

The doctor hesitates, frowning at the floor. “Yeah,” he mumbles, shaking Bucky’s hand weakly. There’s a pause, and then he lifts his gaze and says, “he’s worried about you, buddy.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow and scoffs. “He’s worried about _me_?”

Sam gives a small laugh. “Yeah, I don’t get it either,” he says, “but the main thing he kept askin’ about was how this was gonna affect you. You know, whether you’d be able to go back to work now, if you’d have to take him to his appointments. That sort of thing.”

Bucky doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. “Uh, okay?” 

Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, which Bucky thinks is a little weird considering they’ve had a maximum of two conversations, but he tries not to react. “I’m just sayin’, the two of you need to stick together. You’re good for each other.” His smile is sad as he steps back into the hall. “Have a great day,” he says, before he turns and strides away, head held high. 

Bucky frowns at the doctor’s back, watching him until he disappears. He doesn’t quite know what that means, but he’s too exhausted to give it much thought. He locks the door and drags himself back through the apartment. Soon he’s back in Steve’s bedroom, standing at the foot of the bed and smiling in bleary sort of way that probably looks ridiculous, but he doesn’t care. 

Steve’s sitting up, not even shaking or nothing, with more colour in his cheeks than he’s had for weeks. The look he’s wearing- it’s maybe not quite happy, exactly, but it’s not _unhappy_. 

“You okay?” Bucky asks?

“Yeah,” Steve says, his voice close enough to being light that Bucky doesn’t question it. “Sam says there’s this serum I can have. It’s gonna make my lungs work, or something like that.” 

Bucky’s not thinking clearly enough to be properly worried, but he still frowns a little. “So why do you still look so…” -he searches for a better word, but there’s no softer alternative- “scared?”

“I’m not,” Steve shoots back, without missing a beat. 

“Well, you ain’t happy.”

“I am. Trust me, I’m thrilled.” He can tell Bucky’s unconvinced, and he chews his lip, staring down into his lap. “Can’t you just be happy for me?” he croaks out. He sounds about as tired as Bucky feels, pleading like he never would if he was healthy. “I’m gonna get better, Bucky; that’s all that matters. I’ll go to my appointments and you can go back to work and things will get better, right?” He puts on a real smile, this time. “We can go dancing, you and me.” 

Steve sounds so young, so hopeful, and Bucky isn’t going to do anything to ruin that, not after all the shit they’ve had to go through. They both deserve a break. So he climbs onto the bed, leaning back against the headboard next to Steve, just where he was this morning. “Yeah, you’re right.” He sighs, letting his eyes fall shut. “We’re gonna be just fine.” 

***

When he looks back on that moment, in the months and years and decades that follow, he likes to tell himself he knew there was something wrong. He likes to pretend he was smarter than both of them, that he’d figured it out, really; he just hadn’t wanted to admit it. Because he knew Steve, didn’t he? Steve couldn’t have lied to him, not without giving something away. He had to have known _something_ , hadn’t he? Surely. 

The thought brings guilt with it- if he’d known, couldn’t he have done something to help?- but it’s still much better than the reality.

The reality: he hadn’t seen a goddamn thing. He’d been powerless to stop it, unable to arm himself. What happened, in the end, was all because he’d been too stupid with relief to look properly. 

And it makes him furious; with himself, mostly, but also with Steve. Partly it’s because of the lie, of course, but also because of everything else. Steve, with his courage and his fight and his optimism, had convinced him to let go of his cynicism. To hope. And that was Bucky’s downfall, in the end. That he’d let his guard down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry this took a while. I've had this chapter written for ages but I didn't want to post it until I'd written the one after... Call it a superstition. Apologies. 
> 
> But thanks to you all, and please, please continue to comment and kudos and stuff, because it really does mean an awful lot. 
> 
> See you later, losers.


	12. Chapter 12

Bucky feels jealousy in his chest. It starts out small; this tiny, nagging feeling like someone’s taken a little pinch of his heart and twisted- unpleasant, sure, but manageable. But then it grows, over the weeks and months and years, festers until it becomes unbearable; a fistful of artery, nails digging in, blood vessels bursting. He can hardly breathe for it. 

This is what it feels like now, as he sits on his splintering wooden chair, back against the wall, trying to hide his ever-growing anger as he watches the scene in front of him. Steve- that’s new, strange, no-longer-dying-and-actually-starting-to-build-muscle-if-you-look-closely (which Bucky isn’t, of course) Steve- is sitting on the couch with his back pressed against the armrest, bottle of watery beer in his hand and a stupid grin on his face. The man sitting on the other end of the couch, arm slung over the back in a gesture of pure, irritating comfort, is doctor Sam Wilson, telling some no-doubt _fascinating_ tale about one of his many patients with more money than sense. Steve can’t seem to stop laughing, so it must be goddamn _hilarious_. Either that or they’re reliving something that happened in Arizona- and isn’t that a fun activity for everyone? 

Bucky doesn’t get what’s so funny. As far as he’s concerned, Sam’s been boring as hell all night. So maybe he told one or two good stories, but they were hardly comedy gold. Bucky’s the funny one. Steve knows that. 

Apparently Natasha doesn’t get what the big deal is either. He glances across to her every once in a while, where she’s perched on her own chair with her hands folded in her lap, and they share confused looks. She always has a matching, skeptical raised eyebrow, and like him, she just continues to drink. 

Sam laughs, taking a swig from his bottle. “And do you remember when we saw that lady? The one with the cat?” he says, beaming at Steve in excitement. 

Steve grins at the memory and adds, “yeah, and when she bought the ice cream-” He’s giggling so much he can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. They both crack up, beyond hysterical, clutching their sides and wiping tears from their cheeks. Bucky rolls his eyes. 

Jesus, he’s so _sick_ of hearing about Arizona. Steve hasn’t stopped babbling about his appointment with Erskine since he got back two weeks ago. It’s odd that Steve still refers to it as _The Appointment_ , even though Bucky isn’t sure they even went to one. Steve’s always talking about the car and the city and Sam, but he’s hardly said a word about the actual appointment with Doctor Erskine, which is the only thing that matters to Bucky. He doesn’t care about where they stayed or how great Sam’s Chrysler is; he wants to know what Erskine gave him. Why Steve is so much… _bigger_.

Bucky’s still not sure why he wasn’t allowed to go with them. Steve says Bucky would have hated it; three days of driving, stuck in that freezing cold car with no one but the two of them for company, waiting for the inevitable moment when the well of conversation dried up. Then there would have been a day where Steve had to stay locked away in the lab with Doctor Erskine, and Bucky wouldn’t have done nothin’ but worry, and then the three day drive back. And yeah, when Steve puts it like that, it does sound pretty bad.

Only, that’s not how Steve described it when he got back. Whenever he thinks about it his face goes all bright and happy and wistful, and he starts talkin’ a million miles a minute. It’s not that Bucky wishes Steve’d had a bad time- because God knows Steve deserves to be happy more than anyone else on this whole goddamn planet- he just wishes he’d been there to share it with him. Because that’s what friends do, isn’t it? 

(There's a part of him- bigger than he’d like to admit- that almost mourns for when Steve was sick. He was suffering and he was scared but he was there, and it was the two of them, muddling through on nothing but sheer dumb luck. Bucky knows it’s awful, it’s _awful_ , and he hates himself for even beginning to think it, but what can he do when Steve’s sitting there with that huge smile on his face, pining for that week when Bucky was so far away? What is he supposed to think?)

He catches Natasha’s eye as she shifts her skirt about her thighs. She studies him, her expression carefully blank, giving nothing away. He drops his gaze and sinks lower into his seat. 

Bucky had never wanted this party anyway. Not that you could really call this a party; there are only four people, no music, and the only alcohol is some horrific vodka that Natasha brought along. When he’d asked her if it was safe to drink she’d hesitated before saying that it was “probably” fine. “It made my cousin go blind, but he’s a real lightweight,” she’d said, lightly. “I’m sure you won’t have a problem. Just let me know if you stop being able to stand up, okay?”

The alcohol’s strong enough to strip paint off walls- he’s willing to bet that it’s pure ethanol- but it’s still not getting him drunk quick enough to stop the pain in his chest. When did they stop being friends, him and Steve? When did the kid stop liking him? 

He tracks back through the last month, ever since Sam’s first visit. He remembers the first week, when it was just the two of them; before it all went to shit. Steve was happy, he remembers, actually happy. Hell, Bucky was too- the two of them were totally delirious, giddy with relief, content to the point of hysteria. 

There was so much… peace. 

And then the week ended, and Steve was shipped off to some unnamed Arizona medical lab to be injected with God-knows-what; Jeez, it could have been arsenic, for all Bucky’s been told. Then he came back with a myriad of stories about what he’d seen and who he’d met and the joys of being in hospital, and a whole host of other things that Bucky couldn’t have possibly understood because, “oh, it’s just something from the trip”. The next few days were pure, torturous reminiscing; a blur of _you should have been there_ s and _it was so funny when_ s and _why, isn’t Sam just aces?_

It is Bucky’s unbiased opinion that no, Sam is not “just aces”. 

It’s not that the doctor’s unpleasant or anything. Far from it- he’s one of the nicest men Bucky’s ever met. He’s friendly and witty, generous and smart, interesting and understanding. God, he practically _sweats_ joy. You’re not in the room five minutes with him and you’re grinning from ear to ear, no matter how hard you try not to. 

And that’s just the problem, isn’t it? 

Steve loves him. Can’t wait for Sam’s next visit. Counts down the hours. Bucky thinks the whole thing’s pathetic, getting this excited over seeing the doctor, and can’t help but say so. He tries to keep his mouth shut, he really does, but watching Steve get so animated makes his stomach churn, and soon he’s puking up the words before he can stop himself. 

This, of course, acts as a catalyst to the whole thing. Steve is getting closer and closer to his doctor and further and further from Bucky, and instead of doing something nice to try and get Steve back, all he does is shout and gripe and make Steve hate him even more. It’s just what Bucky does; self destruction at it’s finest. 

In summary, he’d very much appreciate it if Sam fucked off. 

He has to admit, though; Steve’s looking mighty healthy. After just that one appointment the colour comes back into his cheeks and within a couple of days his cough’s almost completely gone. That rashes disappear, as do the fevers, and the kid’s eating like a horse. He’s subtly bulking up, too, and although he’s still skinny as a rake he doesn’t look like he’s dying, which is a definite improvement. 

And that should probably make Bucky happy, that Steve’s healthy. 

But it hasn’t. 

“Hey, you okay there, brother?”

Bucky blinks, dragging himself back into the present. It’s Sam who’s spoken, in a tone that’s so damn concerned it actually, physically hurts. _Fuck you_ , Bucky thinks, his blood pounding in his temples. _I was here first, you son of a bitch. Fuck. You._ “Fuck you,” he says, and hates himself for saying it so quietly, for not screaming it like he should. 

They all still hear him. 

Sam looks mildly surprised for a moment, but then he actually fucking _laughs_. “I’m thinkin’ that maybe you’ve had a little too much to drink.” 

He’s never wanted to hit anyone so much in his life. 

“What the hell, Bucky?” Steve demands, and Bucky can tell that Steve’s as desperate for a fight as he is. They’re both ready for one- this would be their third fight today. “What’s wrong with you?”

He stands up, and he can’t help noticing that Steve’s a lot closer to his height than he used to be. “Not a thing, Steve. Nothing’s wrong with _me_.” 

"And what's that supposed to mean?”

Bucky feels a firm hand on his shoulder, and hears its owner say, “how about we step outside for a minute, huh? Cool off.” He shrugs Natasha off, ignoring the warning in her voice. He’s enjoying the anger, enjoying being in control, and the last thing he wants to do is _cool off_. 

Steve’s just about to say something when Sam steps between them. He’s lost his humour now, and for the first time Bucky realises how strong he is, for a doctor. He’s not angry, as such, but he’s pretty damn close. “I think that would be a good idea,” he says, almost threatening, and he successfully stares Bucky down. There’s the hand on his shoulder again, pushing him towards the door, and he curses himself for being so passive. Christ, if he can’t stand up to Sam-fucking-Wilson, what hope is there for him? 

Natasha shoves him out into the hall and closes the door behind her. The sound of Steve arguing drifts through the thin walls. Bucky hopes Sam and Steve go on arguing forever. 

“Shit,” Natasha murmurs, leaning back against the wall and shutting her eyes. She looks about as tired of this as Bucky feels. 

“Yeah.” 

She huffs, and her eyes snap open. “No. No, don’t act like I’m agreeing with you- I’m not on your side.” 

Bucky’s nostrils flare. “Why the hell not?”

“Because- for God’s sake, Bucky- look at you.” She gestures at him, somewhat aggressively. “You’re a mess.”

“I’m—“ He stops, the rage cutting him off mid-thought. “ Jesus, Natasha. So you think I’m wrong? You think I can’t be mad about this?”

She folds her arms. “Exactly.”

“Then you’re clearly not paying attention.”

She rolls her eyes so hard they almost get lost in the back of her head. “God, you’re so stupid.”

“Am I?” He snaps. 

“I know what’s going on here.”

He hates how smug she is, how knowing. He steps forward; a challenge. “And what’s that?”

“You. Steve. Did you really think I wouldn’t realise?”

He shakes his head adamantly. He doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but if he did, he wouldn’t want her to say it. “I don’t get it.” 

“You don’t get it because you’re an idiot. You’re both idiots.”

“Excuse me?”

"Steve’s not replacing you, Bucky,” she practically yells, and she’s never looked so emotional. She’s gonna explode if she’s not careful. “You’re still his best friend.”

“I never said—“

“And Sam’s not trying to take your place. He’s a good guy, and he’s not as dumb as you are. He’s reasonable, and so is Steve.” A pause. She shakes her head, and her eyes take on this pitying, sympathetic quality. “Shit. I have never, in my whole life, met anyone as messed up as you are.”

He can’t even argue with her there. “Thanks.” 

“Where do you even get these ideas, huh? What makes you think like this?”

Bucky turns his attention to the peeling wallpaper, to the gum stuck to the floor that’s so old that it’s turned black. He shrugs. 

“Come on, Bucky,” she says, uncharacteristically soft, and when she puts her hand on his shoulder he wants to throw up. 

“Shut up,” he says, without knowing why. The words are weak, too quiet, fired in the wrong direction. He’s barely angry anymore, but it still helps to pretend he is.

The hand withdraws and his shoulders tense a little. “Fine,” Natasha says, resigned. “We’ll just sit here. In silence. In this hall that smells like feet.” She folds herself down against the wall, directly in his line of sight so she can glare at him. Her arms are crossed and her expression is _terrifying_. 

_I’m so fucking easy,_ he thinks. _Every damn time._

He rolls his eyes at her, attempting to retain some dignity, even though he knows she sees through it. He drags his feet as he steps towards her, taking a final moment to giver her the stink eye before he clambers down beside her. He brings his knees to his chest and rests his chin on them, wrapping his arms around his thighs. 

He’s well aware that he looks like a sulky child. He decides not to give a shit. 

They sit together in the quiet, eyes glazing over, and it’s not that awkward, really. She’s not forcing him to talk- there’s no need to- but after a while he thinks he might want to anyway. _Well played, Nat,_ he thinks, as he tries to conjure up the words. _Well played_. 

“Alright, if you gotta know,” he begins, lacing his voice with irritation, “when I was ten, at school, I had these… friends.” She turns her face to him a touch to quickly, too curiously, for his liking, but he carries on anyway. “We were the cool kids, you know? You got into our group, you were top of the school. Childish stuff, I know, but it mattered at the time.”

“You’re stalling.” He has to bite his tongue at that, because maybe she’s right but that don’t mean she gotta be rude about it. 

“So anyway,” he says, although it’s more of a growl than anything, “I never really fit in with this crowd, especially when they started talkin’ to girls, because I just wasn’t as… _interested_ as they were, not at that age.” Natasha makes a sharp sound at that, and he decides not to think about what that means. “So this one recess, I decide I can’t stand another second with them and I take myself off and lock myself in the bathroom and I don’t come out for another hour.” 

“What happened?” Natasha asks. 

“Nothing,” he says, with grim resignation, because it’s just some dumb kids’ thing, a memory over ten years old, and there shouldn’t be this pain behind his eyes or this tightness in his throat. “I did my hour and I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and went back to class like nothing had happened. I don’t know, maybe I expected them to miss me or something. Like, maybe I thought they’d come running up to me and demand to know where I’d been, or ask if I was okay or… Yeah, I know, it’s so stupid.”

“What did they do?” 

He shrugs, acts like he doesn’t care. “They hadn’t even realised I was gone. I hadn’t been there for an hour and they had no idea. Not one of them had so much as thought about me the whole time.” 

Natasha rests her head on his shoulder- a gesture of comfort, he assumes. He’s grateful. “Then they were jerks.”

“No, no they weren’t,” Bucky says quickly. “It’s not their fault they didn’t like me. Some people just don’t get along- nobody’s fault, that’s just how it is. I’m not angry. I guess it just stuck with me, y’know?” He stares down at his hands, loose in his lap. His body lost all it’s strength, all it’s fight without him realising. Very quietly, he says, “it was the first time I realised no one wanted me.” 

Natasha stays still for a moment, then reaches for his hand, curls her fingers around his. “We want you.”

“That’s just it, though,” he says. “For how long?” She doesn’t have an answer for that, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to see her face. “Do you know why they didn’t want me?” he asks, and she doesn’t say anything to that either. Her shoulders are tensing next to him. “Because I’m not a friend. I’m not meant to be a good friend. I don’t have it in me.”

She scoffs. “Bullshit.”

“No, I mean it. There are two types of people; those who you wanna be friends with and those you want to be _seen_ to be friends with. Me, people want to be seen with. They think I’m smart or funny or popular or whatever else, and they think I’d be great to hang out with for a night. I’m good fun. But when it comes to the real stuff- the talking and the advice and the comfort- I just can’t do it. A day is about all people can stand before they realise I’m all style and no substance. 

“Now, _Steve_ ,” Bucky says, raising a finger to show he knows what he’s talking about, “Steve’s the opposite. Maybe no one wants to be seen with him, but he’s the one everybody likes, in the end. You need a friend, you go straight to him. He’s all substance. More fucking substance than anyone I have ever met. The only reason he’s not the most popular guy around is because people are stupid enough to underestimate him.”

“And that’s what makes you different,” Natasha says. “You don’t underestimate him.”

“But neither does Sam,” Bucky says, as his hands become fists. “Sam’s never overlooked him, not even when he was dying, for Christ’s sake. He’s a good person, he’s got substance, but he’s also smart and funny and popular and rich. He’s _better than me_. He’s me without the difficulty.”

“You’re not difficult,” Natasha says, but it’s not said with much conviction. 

Bucky scoffs. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a denial.” She doesn’t argue, just squeezes his hand. As if that’s a comfort. As if that’s going to help. “And now Steve’s getting this drug,” Bucky continues, and he knows he’s ranting but he doesn’t give a damn. “This drug that’s going to make him strong and tall and all of a sudden, he’s one of the popular kids too. People are gonna start realising how good he is, now that he’s lookin’ normal. The only reason he stuck with me was because he had nowhere better to go. Soon he’s gonna have _people,_ a crowd of ‘em, and then where does that leave me?” 

Natasha doesn’t speak for a while, and they both just stare at the wall, lost in their thoughts. The sound of Steve arguing inside the apartment has long since faded, and Bucky wonders what he’s going to say to him when he goes back. He’s never been one for apologies. He wonders whether Nat’s going to make him tell Steve all this stuff, all this inner-most-thoughts-and-feelings bullcrap. Will he have to tell Sam, too? Jesus, he can’t think of anything worse. He’d rather have his left arm cut off than that. 

“I’m one of those people too,” Natasha says, and hearing her speak is like listening to a parody of himself; she’s just as nervous, just as tense, and her voice is just as deliberately casual. “Everyone wants to be seen with me, but God forbid I actually try to talk to them. Steve was the first person to ever take me seriously. Ever. Even my dad didn’t think I could do anything- the only reason he gave me the café was because he thought I’d give up within the week and give it back to him.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “Has he ever _met_ you?”

She shrugs. “I’m a woman- my brain is too feeble to handle a business. Apparently I’m too busy menstruating to even _think_ about something so complex as money. Besides, a café is too much of a distraction from my real goal of finding a good husband and raising a litter of children.” 

He grins. “Oh, that’s ridiculous, there are lots of other things you can do. Cooking. Cleaning. Doing your hair real nice.” She looks up to check he’s joking, then laughs and punches him in the shoulder. She hits so hard his eyes water. 

"I'm just saying, I know how it feels, and I know how tempting it is to start believing that the superficial stuff is all you got. The fact that those jerks managed to convince you that there’s nothing good inside you… It makes me sick, Barnes. You should be mad. God knows I am.” She’s staring at him now, really staring, and he shifts against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. She’s scarily persistent. “We do have substance; you just gotta look a little harder. If they don’t have the guts to do that then that’s their loss.”

Bucky swallows. “Can we go back to drinkin’ now?”

She smiles. “Not quite yet, Barnes. We still haven’t talked about Steve.” 

He bites his lip and shrugs a shoulder. “What’s there to say?”

“Have you noticed that Steve’s barely got into any fights since you moved in?” Natasha says, and there’s something worryingly deliberate in her smile. “Because I have.”

“But… that’s because he’s been ill most of the time. Or at appointments. Or… I don’t know, maybe he’s just being more careful.” 

“Do you really think it’s a coincidence?”

He frowns. “Well what else would it be?”

She sighs, squeezing his hand again. “See, I told you you’re an idiot.”

_Well then._

“Can we go back to drinking _now_?” 

She grins. “That we can. Although, I gotta say, I’m already pretty drunk.”

Bucky grunts in agreement. “You can never be too pissed though, right?”

“You’re forgetting about Blind Cousin Billy.”

“Huh. I guess you’re right.”

There a moment of silence from her, and then- 

Then she’s saying-

“You three- you, Steve and Sam… You’re all I’ve got.”

And he should feel disgusted or uncomfortable or embarrassed, like he normally does when anyone says anything remotely sentimental, but somehow he can’t bring himself to. Maybe that vodka was stronger than he thought, or maybe it’s because she’s looking at him like that, and… God help him, all he’s feeling right now is _affection_. Affection for _Natasha_. And she’s staring at him, and they’re staring at each other and goddammit- 

And he leans forward and he kisses her. And she kisses back. 

There’s this moment, this fraction of a second, where he’s actually okay with what he’s doing. 

And then he realises that he doesn’t actually want to kiss her. He’s never wanted to. He has literally no desire to kiss this woman. 

But here they are. 

Natasha seems to realise the same thing a second later, and all the passion, if there ever was any, disappears. It occurs to him that he should stop, move away, _run away_ , but they’re too far gone, and he knows the moment he leans back they’re going to have to _look_ at each other, make _eye contact_ , have a _conversation_ , and oh God, this is the worst decision he’s ever made. Ever. Ever, ever, _ever_. 

So here they are, stuck in this nonsensical situation which neither of them want to be a part of and yet are doing nothing to stop. They’re moving their lips dutifully, and Bucky feels a little ill, and they’re so many astronomical units away from _romance_ that Bucky would laugh, if he wasn’t otherwise occupied. 

And then he hears a door opening. And a step. And a small intake of breath. 

And when they jump apart Bucky turns and sees- _holy fucking mother fucking Christ_ \- Steve Rogers standing in the doorway, eyes wide and mouth twisted in some unidentifiable shape that could mean so many things, but they’re all bad. They’re all horrible. 

This situation just got ten thousand times shittier. 

No one says anything. Not a word. The silence is unbearable, and yet no one’s brave enough to break it. It must be at least an hour before Steve speaks. 

“I- I was gonna ask if you wanted a drink,” he says, slowly, “but I can see you’re… busy. So. I’ll go.” 

Sam pokes his head around the door, come to see what all the silence is about, then spots the two of them huddled on the floor, hand in hand, shoulders pressed together. He probably sees the lipstick that Bucky’s now acquired, too, and the brutal blush on everyone’s cheeks. His eyes go wide, and he retreats without a word. 

Finally Natasha comes to her senses, and she’s on her feet in seconds. Steve looks like a horse about to bolt, and she makes sure to approach with care, hands up and palms showing. “Steve-“

“It’s fine, you carry on.” 

“No, Steve, we need to talk-“

But Steve’s already safely back in the apartment, door locked, and there’s just more silence out in the hall. 

Natasha stands facing the door, and Bucky can’t see her face, but he’s going to go ahead and assume she’s mortified. “He’s going to hate me,” she says, flatly. 

“If it helps, he’s going to hate both of us,” Bucky says, as he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. _Shit shit shit shit-_

“No, you don’t understand, he told me-“ She cuts herself off, standing up straight to regain some composure. “He’s going to hate me. Fuck.”

There’s a small part of Bucky that legitimately wants to drown. It’s growing by the second. “Look, Nat…” he starts awkwardly. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, okay? I have nothing against you, and you’re a good friend of mine, but… I mean, don’t take this the wrong way-“

“Don’t panic, Barnes. I don’t ever want to kiss you again either.” 

“Oh thank God,” he whispers in relief. 

There’s another silence, which both of them spend burying their heads in their hands. 

“Fuck,” says Natasha.

“Fuck,” agrees Bucky. 

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOOH DRAMA
> 
> I wasn't going to post this so soon but I got a little over excited. It's a curse. 
> 
> The next update may be a while now that summer's over, and I'm really sorry about that. As a consolation, I'll try to make the next few chapters extra exciting. 
> 
> Thank you all, you lovely people, and special thanks to FeelsVomit once again, for being the bestest ever.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a little period-typical racism in this chapter at the start. It's nothing serious and it's not important to the story line, so you could probably skip to the latter half of the chapter if you wanted to avoid it.

It’s the most ethereally beautiful day Bucky can remember. The air’s crisp and cold enough to knock the lethargy out of him, but not so cold that it stings. There’s a thin layer of frost on the concrete and the streets glitter, mirroring the pink of the 6am sky. There’s no wind, no rain, just long streams of sunlight reflecting off windows, so each building’s a mosaic. The birds are singing, the snowdrops are swaying and it’s enough to make most people forget all they’re all their troubles and thank God that they’re alive. 

Bucky is not most people. 

Bucky feels like hell. 

The cafe’s not even open yet, but he knows Natasha’s there, setting up for the day. Steve don’t gotta be in for another couple of hours, so Bucky doesn’t run the risk of bumping into him. He was able to slide off the couch and get dressed without making too much noise, and if he did manage to wake Steve up, the kid didn’t make an appearance. There was a time when Steve would have been worried if he’d woken up and his friend wasn’t there, but Bucky’s willing to bet that those times have well and truly passed. 

And the sun’s too bright, and the wind’s too harsh, and everything’s _fucked._

There aren’t many people about at this time of morning, but it’s still more than he’d expected. He’s lucky that none of them are particularly eager to make conversation- they’re only awake because they have to be, and the best they can offer is a sad smile as they pass; some small acknowledgement of their mutual pain. 

And that’s why he doesn’t put much effort into saying hello to Mrs. Appleton as she cycles past. That proves to be a _big_ mistake, because the greeting is so shockingly forlorn that she actually swerves to a halt on the pavement and clambers from the saddle, getting her skirt caught in the peddles in her rush to comfort him. Cursing to himself, Bucky carries on walking, pretending not to notice. He doesn’t need her sympathy, and he doesn’t need her reminding him about… all _that._

"James!" she shouts, her heels thudding behind him. “Jimmy, wait!” 

He wishes he could just _die_. 

But she’s an old friend and she means well, and she’s running so fast he can’t really avoid stopping. Swallowing his feeling of impending doom, he slows to a halt. He tries once again to smile, but he must be out of practice because when he turns to her her frown just deepens. 

“What’s wrong, my love?” she croons, in that sickeningly high-pitched voice of hers. Her face reminds him of a deflated balloon. 

"Not a thing, ma’am," he says, shoving his hands under his armpits to keep warm. “I guess I’m not a morning person.”

She shakes her head, tight grey-brown curls bobbing up and down on her scalp. “But you look _miserable_ ,” she says, clutching her hands to her chest. He’d thought she’d have grown out of the melodrama by fifty, but she’s still just as suffocatingly well-meaning as ever. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “Tired, is all.” 

“Is it your father?” she asks, voice dropping to a stage-whisper. He can’t help bristling at that. It’s his view that she’s not allowed to mention him- no one is, except for him and his sister. If it was up to him, she’d never have known anything about what happened. Of all the people he had to have living next door growing up, why did it have to be her?

"No," he snaps. 

“Your mother?” she asks.

“No.” 

She considers this for a moment, and then nods sagely. She gives him a gap-toothed grin of triumph. “It’s your sister, isn’t it?”

He grits his teeth. “No ma’am, it is not my sister.”

She doesn’t let up, placing a varicose hand on his arm. “What has she said to you?”

“Nothing,” he says, biting back the venom in his voice. _Nothing for five fucking years._

“Well, it must be something, Jimmy,” she says disapprovingly, like she’s the one being inconvenienced by this conversation. 

“It’s nothing, really,” he says, trying to shake the hand off as subtly as he can. She won’t budge. “But it’s been nice to see you.”

He attempts to take a step back but then her face changes- dissolves in comical, wide-eyed shock. A _revelation_. “Oh,” she says, quietly. 

He knows he should leave, he knows nothing good can come of this conversation, but he can’t help it if he’s curious. He sighs. “What?”

Her lips press together, and this is the nostalgic condemnation he remembers her for. “That _friend_ of yours,” she says. “He’s the one who’s got you upset.”

Bucky frowns. 

“I’ve heard rumours,” she continues, “about you and your- _friend_.” 

Oh, and there’s something _horrific_ about that sentence. “What kind of rumours?” he asks, taking a step closer. 

“ _Bad_ rumours,” she says. “You and this- this _man_.” 

“What are people saying?” Bucky snaps, as panic bubbles in his throat. 

She grimaces, like she can’t bare to say the words, and leans close enough that only Bucky could possibly hear. And then she whispers, “the coloured one. The _black man_. The one who pretends to be a doctor. He’s been in your _house_.” 

Bucky blinks at her for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what just happened. Sam. She’s- she’s worried about _Sam._ “I’m going to go now, Mrs. Appleton,” he says. 

She still looks terrified. “So it’s true? Have you spoken to him?”

“A little,” Bucky says, and because he can’t resist, he adds, “mostly about witchcraft. And the Devil. And his plan to invade America.” 

She audibly gasps, skinny eyebrows shooting up. “ _Invade America?_ ” she breathes, scandalised. 

“I’m afraid so.” 

She takes a moment to absorb this, touching her fingers to her lips. “Oh _James_ ,” she whispers, clearly unable to contain her horror. “You’ll be careful, won’t you? You know I worry about you.”

“I’ll be careful,” he assures, straight-faced as possible. 

“And you won’t let him _do_ anything? They have some strange practices, where he’s from.” 

Bucky curses his father for teaching him never to hit an elderly woman. “I won’t let him do a thing,” he says. “I’ll see you later, ma’am.” 

“Be careful,” she calls after him, frowning as she climbs back onto her bicycle. 

He can’t decide whether the exchange has made him furious or cheered him up immensely. Maybe it’s both. 

He waits until she’s out of sight before he continues his walk. He tries to fight the memories of his family, but seeing his old neighbour brings it all back. He remembers his ma complaining about her when she got back from the butchers, and remembers having to take the long route to school so they could avoid her in the mornings. The Barnes’s were never morning people. They were a social family but a reserved one too- ma never let anything slip about her husband- not until it it was too late. They were proud, all four of them- right to the end. 

He wonders about Becca, sometimes. He writes her letters. She doesn’t write back. 

By the time he spots the squat, square café sitting between two drab office buildings, like a child sitting between two dusty middle-aged men, he’s back to his normal, morbid self. He peers through the café window, but the sun’s so bright he can’t see a damn thing. He taps on the glass, a little harder than necessary, and waits with his hands in his pockets, squinting into the light. He hears some shuffling in the shop, some indistinguishable grumbling, and then the clink of the latches sliding back. The door opens. 

“I’m busy,” is all Natasha says, with an edge of dry frustration that Bucky’s pretty much used to by now. 

He’s hardly in the mood, but even so Bucky gives her his best smile, leaning in the doorway and tilting his head to the side. To anyone else, he’d look goddamn adorable. “Can’t you make an exception for your best customer?” he asks, shamelessly batting his eyelashes. Natasha remains unmoved. 

“You never pay for anything you order,” she points out. 

“What if I’m paying with my arresting blue eyes and my roguish charm?”

“All you do is complain and pop your blisters. It’s unsanitary.” 

Bucky sticks out his bottom lip, dropping the smirk and going for the puppy-dog eyes. “But what if I’m really hungry?” he whines, because he’s always considered dignity to be overrated. 

Natasha gives him a long stare of contempt, and Bucky feels himself withering under her gaze. “You’re pathetic,” she says, and turns away, retreating into the café. He guesses that’s the closest he’s gonna get to an invitation in. 

He follows her between the tables, stopping as she weaves around the cash register. He rests his elbows against the counter top as she bags up a cookie for him. “I know it’s a long shot,” he says, “but you don’t happen to have any of those packed with rat poison, do you?”

“Why? Who do you want to kill?” she replies, with a dangerous lack of concern. 

“No no, it’s for me.”

She glances up at him, brow furrowed in sympathy. “Steve still not talking to you?”

“He barely even looks at me. I swear, yesterday he said two words and that was it.” _The first of many reasons why I hate everything_ , he thinks.

She hands him his cookie, carefully wrapped in a paper bag, and leans against the back wall. “Is he mad?”

“No,” Bucky says, disbelieving even as he says it. “He’s not mad, he’s just… sad. He’s so fucking sad all the time- I’ve never seen him like that.”

“He got mad at me,” Natasha says, with a hint of bitterness. 

“Exactly, that’s what I don’t understand. Why is he mad at you but not at me?” She looks down at her hands, carefully avoiding his gaze. “What? Do you know something?” 

“No,” she says. “I need to sort some things out in the office. Keep talking- I’m listening.” 

He follows her as she heads to the back. “I wish he would get angry,” Bucky says, raising his voice so she can hear him. “We could shout about it, get it all out in the open. Clear the air. He’s keeping things from me, Natasha. He’s shutting me out, and I just don’t understand what I’ve done wrong.”

She pokes her head out from inside the office, eyebrow arched. “What, you don’t remember?” she asks, drily. “Because I pulled out all my best moves. It was a very memorable experience.”

He sighs and she disappears back into the office, smirking. “Look, if you think about it, we didn’t do anything wrong,” Bucky argues. “I mean, you and I are both adults- we can make our own decisions. It’s not like he’s courting you or nothin’; we don’t owe him a thing. If we wanna… do whatever, that’s our choice. When did he get to decide who we can and can’t kiss?”

There’s a pause while Natasha loudly shuffles some papers, then she calls out, “it’s a little more complicated than that.”

“Yeah?” Bucky says, doubtful. “And what does that mean?”

Natasha finally emerges, striding to the counter without so much as glancing at him. She busies herself transferring mugs and trays from a spot on her left to a different spot on her right. He follows a few paces behind. “Steve’s … in a bad place,” she says.

He scoffs. “You’re telling me that just because he used to have TB, we’re not allowed to date?” 

“It’s not about TB,” she says, dismissively. “And we don’t want to date.”

“I know. But I’d like to have the option.” 

Natasha pauses in her arranging to push his cookie towards him and gesture to a table in the opposite corner. “Bucky, dear, we’re opening in ten minutes. Do you mind just shutting up and looking pretty for a while?”

He reluctantly takes the bag. “If I do, will you give me one of those twisty, pastry things again?”

Natasha’s already at the other end of the store, sorting out chairs. “It’s called a croissant,” she says. “And no.“

So he sits in the corner and eats his cookie. 

He doesn’t get to speak to her after that; as soon as she opens the café she’s lost in a hurricane of seven-o’clock-rush, smiling and serving until she can barely stand. With no one around to help her deal with the breakfast crowd, the line’s almost out the door, and a couple of patrons are getting crabby. Bucky’s offered to help on many occasions, but Natasha always assures him that serving is a lot harder than it looks, and that without proper training he’s bound to break something, and guaranteed to dissuade a customer from ever coming back. So all he can do is watch her struggle, and assuage his guilt by reminding himself that he tried. 

He’s just ready to leave, standing up and brushing the crumbs off his fingers, when he sees Sam Wilson stride in. He’s all dressed for work- tie on, shoes shined and briefcase in hand- and he’s skilfully ignoring the way those two tired old men by the counter are glaring at him. Bucky quickly sits back down, ducking his head and praying he won’t be seen. 

He’s not so lucky. 

Sam searches him out like a goddamn falcon, spotting him in the corner straight away. Now Bucky wishes he hadn’t sat down; if he was smart, he’d have met Sam at the door and told him he couldn’t talk, not right now, not with work starting in fifteen minutes. _Idiot, Barnes._ But it’s too late, with Sam pushing through the crowd towards him. He’s already made eye-contact, however brief, however awkward. _Time to face the music._

He expects some kind of frosty reception, seeing as the last thing he said to the fella had been along the lines of _fuck off_ , but Sam’s showing no signs of anger. Maybe there’s a little… hesitance there, but it’s so slight that you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking for it. 

“Bucky,” he greets, amicably enough. “How ya doing?” 

“I’m swell,” Bucky says, which is a lie, but he wants to get out of here as soon as possible, and it’s a lot quicker than the truth. “You?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Sam says, half-smiling. “Y’know. Surviving.”

"Yeah." Bucky clears his throat, making a grab for his jacket. “Listen, Sam,” he says, pushing himself out of his seat. “I’d love to stick around for a while, but I got work starting at seven thirty-“

“It won’t take you a minute to walk down.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “But boss don’t like it if I’m late.” 

Sam steps to the side, blocking his exit. He can still leave, but it’ll be twice as awkward to push Sam outta the way. “Can’t that wait?” Sam asks, all sincere and beseeching. “This is important.” 

Bucky does not like the sound of that. He steps forward, knocking Sam out the way with a shoulder. “I’m really sorry about the other night,” he says, throwing the words out as fast as he can. “I am, but I gotta go. I’ll see you-”

Sam reaches out and grabs his arm- not hard, but firm enough to hold him in place. “It’s not about that, Bucky,” he says. “I get it- you were angry and drunk, and you’re not the first person to not like me, okay? I just wanna talk about Steve, that’s all.” 

Bucky pulls his arm away, trying to remain indignant despite the guilt making his guts twist. “I don’t dislike you,” he mumbles, and he’s being honest, in a sense. 

“You don’t have to explain.”

“No, no, I do,” Bucky says, staring down at his feet. “I mean, you’re a good guy and you do a lot for Steve, and there’s nothing wrong with you. I think I’m just…” He flounders for the words, glancing up at Sam to see whether he’s managed to figure it out for himself. He hasn’t. He thinks for a moment longer. “I’m in a bad place,” he finishes, even though he doesn’t really know what that means. 

Sam holds his hands up in surrender. “I understand, buddy. Apology accepted.” He lowers his hands and nods towards the table, eyebrow raised. “Can we talk now?”

“Sure,” he says, pulling up a chair. “Although, I really do have to go soon.”

Sam takes the seat opposite, his chair scraping loudly on the floorboards. “That’s fine- I’ll be fast. I just wanted to know if you had any idea what’s up with Steve.”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing,” Bucky admits. “Ever since me and Natasha…” He trails off, shifting in his chair. “He hasn’t said anything to you?”

Sam looks down at his hands for a moment, and Bucky can’t miss the hesitation. “Nothing. I mean, nothing genuine,” he says. He raises an eyebrow at Bucky. “He still thinks you and Nat are together, you know.” 

_Oh, God help me,_ Bucky thinks, as the familiar frustration resurfaces. He’s fairly certain he’s explained the situation to Steve at least a hundred times, and yet the kid’s still convinced that he’s lying. He supposes it’s natural for people not to trust him, considering his track record, but it still smarts. He sighs; long and laboured. “That kid’s hard fucking work,” he mutters, and Sam shrugs in reluctant agreement. 

“The thing is,” Sam says, leaning forward like he’s about to share a secret. Stupidly, Bucky ends up leaning in too. “I’m getting good at reading Steve. He tells me things, sometimes, or accidentally lets something slip, and I gotta say, Buck-“ Sam pauses, and his expression turns all piercing and serious. Bucky does his best to lean back without Sam noticing. “I don’t think his problem is with you,” Sam says. “It’s not like he thinks any less of you at all- if Steve’s mad at anyone, it’s himself.” 

Bucky really tries to make sense of that, but he never has much hope. “What does that mean?”

Sam shakes his head. “Honestly, I can’t say I know. I have… theories about why he’s thinking what he’s thinking, but I still can’t understand why he’s taking it this far.”

Maybe he’s just paranoid, but Bucky thinks that’s far too vague to be palatable. “What kinda theories?” he asks, eyes narrowing. 

Sam shakes his head, desperately dismissing the question. “It’s nothing, it doesn’t matter,” he says quickly. “My point is, it’s not like Steve to act so dramatic, y’know?”

Bucky snorts. “You don’t know Steve like I do,” he says, and if he’s a little smug about that he tries not to let it show. 

Sam shrugs, conceding gracefully. “Okay. Maybe.” He frowns up at Bucky. “But moving out? I mean, you have to admit, that’s drastic.” 

Bucky takes a few seconds to process that, the confusion surging up so quickly he almost mistakes it for anger. What the _hell_ does that mean? “Moving out?” he repeats, dumbly. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, and then it’s his turn to look confused. There’s a moment where they just frown at each other, daring each other to figure it out. 

It’s Sam who gets there first, as his expression morphs into understanding, then wide-eyed shock, and then all-encompassing dread. “He didn’t tell you,” Sam says, slowly. “Jeez, I mean, it wasn’t like he was keeping it a secret- I just assumed-“ 

“He’s moving out?” He can feel himself going cold- that kind of painful, burning cold; the kind that gets into your bones. “When… Why is he moving out?” 

Sam’s eyes race around the café, as if he’s searching for help. “I don’t know, buddy,” Sam says, in a tone that says he’d rather be anywhere but here. “He just said you two weren’t getting on so well and he asked if he could stay with me for a while. I said no, by the way,” he rushes to add. “Well. I didn’t say yes. Not exactly.”

“So… He’s moving out?” 

Sam rubs the back of his neck, features softening in sympathy. “I’m sorry, pal,” he says, speaking quietly. “I thought you knew.” 

Bucky can’t come up with a coherent response to that. 

The sit in silence for a while; Sam stares adamantly at his hands while Bucky desperately tries to understand what went wrong. Things weren’t exactly golden between him and Steve, but they weren’t pack-up-and-leave-home bad. What has he done? How could he have got it so wrong?

And more importantly, why did Steve bother to stick around for this long?

Because, if he’s honest, Bucky’s been waiting for this since they met. It always happens, every time- whenever he gets complacent. And that’s what Bucky’s become- complacent, sloppy, lazy. No wonder Steve wants to leave. Bucky fooled himself into thinking he didn't need to try this time, that Steve was a little different to everyone else, so he didn't put in the effort. Steve’s bored. He's tired. The man who never gives up has finally decided to throw in the towel- and who can blame him?

And then he meets Sam’s eye, all concerned and sympathetic and pitiful. 

And then Bucky gets angry. 

He’s out of his seat before he knows what he’s doing, spurred on by some sudden burst of energy. Christ, he’s dying to hit someone. There's a storm in his fists and if he doesn't get out this café soon he's gonna tear the whole place down. 

_You asshole, you fucking-_

"Bucky?" Sam asks, hesitantly rising from his seat. “You okay? Where are you goin’?”

“Work,” Bucky says, and he can't help it if he snaps a little. 

Sam seems to sense that he’s beyond hellbent, and doesn't make a real attempt to follow. “Do you want me to- I don't know, pass on a message or something?”

Bucky‘s teeth clench unconsciously. “No,” he says. “Sure. Do what you want, pal. I don't care.” 

He starts to make his way through the maze of tables, occasionally knocking into pieces of furniture or inadvertently elbowing people in the back of the head. "Hey, buddy, slow down for a second,” Sam calls, all the while sending apologetic looks to the patrons caught in Bucky’s wake. He ignores him. “Look, just… Be careful, okay?” 

Bucky doesn't bother responding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, there may be a really long wait until the next chapter. I'm so sorry.
> 
> In the meantime, imagine Bucky trying and failing to pronounce the word croissant. I thought about that and it made me giggle so much I had to include it. I know, I'm pathetic. 
> 
> Thanks broconuts.


	14. Chapter 14

Bucky doesn’t say anything, not for a while. He can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s because saying it out loud feels like admitting it’s really happening; the same way it feels when he talks about his ma. Or maybe it’s because he’s ashamed of himself for letting it happen, letting Steve resent him this much. Bucky took him for granted, started getting complacent, and this is what he gets for it. 

Or maybe it’s something else entirely; maybe it’s because there’s a deep, dark part of him that’s enjoying this- enjoying Steve being the bad guy for once. It’s proof that Steve’s not perfect after all, despite what Bucky had always quietly suspected. It’s not like Steve’s ever been _perfect_ , exactly, but all his defects were superficial- never moral failings. Yes, he’s skinny and reckless and infuriatingly stubborn, but he’s never done anything wrong- not on purpose. This is the exception, though, the hamartia that Bucky’s secretly been hoping for since they met. And yes, he’s aware that that makes him a complete bastard, but hey, now Steve’s a bastard too. They’re bastards together, and isn’t that what’s important? 

So he doesn’t say anything, not for a few days. What he wants, he’s realised, is for Steve to tell him himself, to look him in the eye, to apologise, even. Steve’s no coward- Bucky knows that- so it shouldn’t be a problem for him, in theory. He should be able to explain exactly why he needs to leave, exactly what Bucky’s done. If Bucky just had a reason, then he’d (probably) be able to let Steve go. 

He stays quiet, keeping his knowledge hidden whenever Steve locks himself in his room, or goes out on mysterious, hour-long excursions, or has private chats with Sam (in fact, he does his best to stay out of Sam’s way all together, because at the moment it’s all too tempting to shoot the messenger.) Bucky stops trying to make peace; he doesn’t run after Steve to ask what’s wrong or try to calm the storm in his eyes. They’re both as withdrawn as each other. It’s pathetic, of course, but Bucky decided long ago that that didn’t bother him. He’s not above anything, by this point. 

And it would be great, if it was just this. If he could be angry, and Steve could be angry, and they could hate each other like adults. Every now and then Steve could disappear to his appointments, and Bucky could get used to having the apartment all to himself again, and he’d remember how much he’d enjoyed his own company. Steve could finally decide to move in with Sam, gradually transferring belongings from one building to another, and then by the time he’d mention it, it would be a relief. He’d be gone, and Bucky wouldn’t regret a thing; he did all he could. They’d never have to speak again, if they didn’t want to. Simple as that. 

Except. 

There’s the other thing. 

See, Bucky knows there’s a difference between seeing and looking. Seeing is passive, accidental, everyday; you could never be blamed for seeing something you shouldn’t- it’s not your fault. You could see something every day and never even think about it, like that sign on Elroy’s hardware store with the missing letter, or that funny-looking tree by Kirkwood Avenue. 

And then there’s looking, and that’s something else entirely. 

And if Bucky _sees_ Steve, there’s no problem. If he sees Steve getting bigger, or sees how bright his eyes are, or sees the muscles under his shirt, it’s not an issue. Not his fault. How could anyone blame him- it’s an accident, probably. 

But if he looks—

He can’t hate Steve, not really. Not forever. He despises himself, despises how pathetic he is, clinging to someone he knows doesn’t want him there, refusing to let go. He’s disgusting, he knows he is, but what can he do? What can he do when he doesn’t have anyone else? 

But he tries to hate, he tries so goddamn hard, and it’s a miracle when he succeeds. He doesn’t stop hating for the next three weeks. 

Doesn’t stop until Steve finds him in an alley, leg shattered, head down, bleeding out in the street. 

***

It’s a Sunday evening when it happens, while Steve’s locked himself away in his room for another evening. He said he was just going in to change outta his church clothes, but it’s a feeble excuse. Bucky’s surprised he even bothered to lie. 

Neither of them have had the best of days. That’s what happens when the two of them are stuck together for a whole twenty four hours- it’s the new order. It’s not like they’ve had a serious argument or anything; there’s just this layer of tension when they’re both together, something intangible that makes them both sensitive to the slightest remark. It’s exhausting, maintaining this level of anxiety. They’re both sick of it. 

So it’s here, when Steve shuffles out of his room to grab dinner, that Bucky finally says something. 

He pulls up a chair at the table, resting his hands flat on the wood. Steve isn’t looking at him- too busy picking at the cans in the cupboard under the counter- but that’s not unusual. Bucky clears his throat, but there’s no response. He sighs, irritated. “Alright Steve, you better tell me what the fuck’s going on or I swear…”

Steve huffs- Bucky thinks it’s some kind of aborted laugh. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Jesus Christ, you _know_ ,” Bucky says. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

There’s another half-chuckle-thing, and Steve’s shoulders twitch. “Bucky, just tell me what it is-“

All he has to do is glance over his shoulder, and Bucky’s glare silences him. He doesn’t react except for the tiniest hardening of his features, like he knows what’s coming. Something about his expression sends all Bucky’s intentions of subtlety out the window. He keeps his voice as flat as he can, restraining his anger. “You’re moving in with Sam?”

Steve flinches, tensing up, ready to fight. “It’s not… definite,” he says, with a hesitance that shows he’s aware of how weak that sounds. “He might say no.”

“You’re moving across town, to another building that you can’t afford, so you can live with Sam,” Bucky says, eyebrow raised, fists clenched. 

“Only temporarily.”

Bucky has to try extremely hard not to hit him. “I don’t follow,” he says. 

Steve shrugs, not breaking eye contact for a second. “It’s just until I can find my own place.”

Bucky snorts. “Steve, you’re living in the cheapest building in Brooklyn. The only place you could afford to rent by yourself is this, right here. Where the fuck could you go?”

Steve shrugs, turning his face away. His voice goes unnervingly quiet. “Maybe I’d look somewhere else. Y’know, outside Brooklyn.” 

Bucky can hardly speak for a moment. “Steve. Brooklyn’s your _home_. You love it here. You couldn’t leave; you wouldn’t, not without—” The sadness almost swallows him, the self-loathing pooling in his lungs, twisting in his gut. He knows what Steve’s telling him- he knows that look too well. “Christ. Are you really that desperate to get away from me?”

Steve says nothing. He’s staring determinedly at his shoes, fingers twisted together, like he’s bracing himself. It’s eerie, the way he refuses to move. 

And then something else grabs him, displacing every drop of regret. The rage boils in his stomach, bubbles up into his chest, his throat, bursts between his teeth. “For crying out loud, Steve, aren’t you at least going to tell me what I’ve done? ‘Cause it’s gotta be something bad, right? I mean, maybe I’m not the best guy, but I’ve never been _drop-everything-and-leave-town_ bad. To warrant that I gotta have, I don’t know, killed your grandmother or something.” A pause. “So what is it?”

Steve shakes his head, but it’s all stilted, jerky movements; mechanical. “It’s not your fault.”

“Then what the fuck is it?” Bucky yells, striding forward. To his credit, Steve doesn’t back away. 

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea that we live together anymore.”

“Why?” Bucky demands. “What did I do?”

“Nothing.”

“Then what’s wrong with you?”

Finally, at long fucking _last_ , Steve raises his head. Bucky pretends not to notice how red his eyes have gone. “I thought you’d be happy. This would give you some space.” 

“Who said anything about needing space?”

“I just thought you might want to be on your own for a while.” Bucky can’t think of anything more hideous, and h’s about to point this out when Steve adds, “or, y’know. With someone else. Natasha, or… Someone else.”

“Oh for the love of God, are we still on this? Because I am getting real sick of this conversation.” Bucky will not- _will not_ \- feel bad about the way Steve curls in on himself. “For the last fucking time, I have no interest in Natasha. She and I were drunk out of our minds and feeling vulnerable, or something, but that does not mean I have any intention of pursuing her. None. Can’t you let this drop?”

Steve shrugs. 

“What does that mean?” Bucky demands, feeling heavier than he has in months. 

Steve curls his fist, uncurls, and then says, “it’s just not a good idea, Buck.” 

Goddammit, it almost sounds like he cares. The anger’s still present, of course- it’s always there in Steve, sitting under everything, but it’s not just that anymore. There’s a twist at the end of his words, a withering of each syllable, and for a brief moment Bucky feels like comforting him- holding his hand, cradling his head, telling him that he forgives him, _it’s okay, pal, whatever you need to do_. 

He says it like an apology. 

And maybe Bucky should be gallant about this, accept Steve’s not-quite-apology and bow out gracefully. No point drawing this out, making it worse. Put an end to it. After all, that’s what Steve would do for him- he should do the decent thing. 

Unfortunately, Bucky’s never been one for decent. 

“Fuck you,” he says, flat and cold. Steve’s shoulders twitch, but that’s the only indication that he’s heard anything. “Keep the fucking apartment- you can’t get anything else. If you want me gone so bad, then I’ll leave. I’m the villain here, right?”

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“Fuck you.” 

And finally, _finally_ there’s a crack in the wall, a break in that relentless fucking sadness. Steve’s anger swells, taking over every inch of his new body, displacing the mess of _whatever-else-it-was_ that’s been haunting him for weeks. Bucky can see it now, that unrestrained rage, buried in his tensed muscles and barred teeth. There’s a sick satisfaction in it- making Steve react like this- and he can’t pretend it doesn’t feel good. It feels normal, familiar. Steve’s pissed and Bucky’s scared and they’re not listening to a word the other says because it doesn’t matter who’s right and who’s wrong, providing they’re together. God, he missed this. 

“This isn’t your decision, Bucky,” Steve bites out, spitting the name. _Where has this been all week?_ Bucky thinks, and he couldn’t be more relieved. “You don’t get to make me feel guilty. I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky snaps back, because he can’t stop himself and he doesn’t give a damn anymore. 

“And what do you know about it?” Steve growls.

“Nothing,” he says, volume increasing. “Not a goddamn thing, and I’m just about sick of it.”

Steve’s lip curls and it’s violent now- whatever it is that Bucky’s forced out of him, it’s not stopping until it’s finished. “Don’t act like I’m the only one with secrets.”

There’s a threat in there somewhere, hidden in his voice, coiled up in his fists. Bucky doesn’t quite know how to respond- there’s no counter-attack he can offer, and certainly no defence. He realises too late what an awful mistake this was; if there was anything left of whatever kinda relationship he and Steve had, it’s pretty much dead now. Turns out Natasha was right- he’s an idiot. 

And the worst part is, he has no plans to stop. 

“You think it’s fun, looking after you?” he snaps, in a move that he regrets before he even says it. He’s out of control- he barely knows what he’s saying. “You think it’s easy? Do you know what I gave up to help you?”

It hits right where is it (and isn’t) meant to, and for a moment Steve’s face melts into something raw and hurt- something that Bucky hasn’t seen for a long time, something that he swore he’d never create, not with Steve. 

But then it hardens, and Steve’s jaw juts forward, and it’s cold and sharp and _ugly_. “That’s not fair,” Steve says, clearly going for rage but just missing it. “I never forced you to stay.” 

Bucky scoffs, and before he knows why he’s yelling. “I couldn’t leave, could I? Jesus, I had to stay, you were fucking dying-“

“I was not-“

“You were fucking _dying_ , and without me you’d have died _alone_.” (He doesn’t know why, but he’s yelling—) “No family, Steve, no friends. Without me it would have been a lonely goddamn funeral. I was all you had- I fucking saved you. I saved you from dying alone, and how long did it take you to forget it?”

Breathe out. Breathe in. 

And the dust settles, and he realises what he’s said. 

Maybe it's only then that he realises quite how good Steve is. Knowing as much as he does, and being as angry as he is, he’d have every right to fight back with some equally piercing remark- it’s not like he’d be short of ammunition. God knows he could pinpoint Bucky’s insecurities with surgical precision, pick them off without a moment’s thought. It could just be a look, a word, and Bucky would be beaten right there. 

And yet Steve doesn’t say a damn thing, barely even reacts. Bucky wishes he’d hit him, prays he’ll fight but he doesn’t, and the horror of it crawls down his spine. He’s won the argument, and he loathes himself for it. 

“Fine,” Steve says, in this voice that’s like steel. “I won’t be your burden any longer. I’ll find my own place- I don’t want your pity.”

If Bucky didn’t know any better, he’d say Steve was doing this on purpose. Maybe he know exactly how to get to him, to draw it out for as long as possible. At least, that’s what Bucky hopes this is, because otherwise he’s just been the biggest bastard in history while Steve’s been the biggest hero. Just his luck. “I told you before, I’ll go.”

Steve shakes his head slightly, stiffly, like his joints have rusted. “No. No, I don’t wanna take any more of-“

“Stop it, Steve,” Bucky says, because every word just makes him feel worse. “I don’t want the apartment.” Too late to bite his tongue, too late to back off, _too late-_ “It’s a dump, you know it is. Do what you want with it, but I’m not keeping it.” 

Steve pushes his hands into his pockets in some kinda morbid parody of comfort. Bucky feels sick. If he doesn’t leave this room right now, he’s gonna puke all over it. 

“This is what you wanted, Steve,” he says, pleading, hoping Steve takes it as the apology it is, it _has to be_. 

Unsurprisingly, Steve isn’t in a giving mood. 

“I never did anything to you,” he says, like a sledgehammer to the gut. It’s so fucking quiet. 

“I never did anything to you either.” They lock eyes, and it’s obvious that they both know what a big fat liar he is. 

“Get out,“ Steve says, cold as ice, and Bucky does as he’s told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes yes, I know. It's been ages. I had work and exams, and... Y'know, other excuses. I wouldn't go as far as to say I'm back, but at the very least, I'm here temporarily. So. Yeah. 
> 
> If you've stuck with me for this long then you're the best, and I love you. If you've just arrived, then you poor thing. Get out while you can. 
> 
> Thank you all so much, you're amazing :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some homophobia at the end of this chapter guys, so be warned. It's a few slurs, so if people are uncomfortable you might want to avoid it. Sorry about that. 
> 
> But I'm really grateful that you're reading, and your comments are lovely. You people rule- thank you so much. 
> 
> And the usual thanks to FeelsVomit, who is basically incredible in every way. I know you're not meant to be this gushy in the notes, but it's too late. She's awesome. 
> 
> And so are you. I hope you enjoy :)

He doesn’t get very far. 

He doesn’t know how long he spends crouching outside the door, knees pressed to his chest, hands covering his face, nails digging into his eyelids. His breathing is loud and erratic and his heart won’t stop thrashing. He has to stretch his jaw open every few seconds to make sure he doesn’t break his teeth. 

He is _not_ leaving. 

_Steve has no fucking right,_ he thinks, although his brain fails to articulate exactly what Steve has no fucking right to do. All he has is this vague, childish sense that he’s been wronged, and it’s so large that it fills his whole body, worming his way into every tiny crevice of his consciousness. The injustice. The betrayal. The blind, all-encompassing _hate_. 

And the knowledge that it’s all his own fault. 

He hears a door open and close; not the one behind him, not Steve’s, but the one across the hall. He doesn’t bother looking up. Nothing matters except the slowly-dwindling anger, and his desperation to hang on to it. 

“You okay there?” says Rumlow’s voice, and in that moment Bucky hates him, hates everyone, hates himself. Just hates. 

“Perfect,” he growls through his fingers, still clamped over his face. 

There’s a few seconds of silence, Rumlow considering, and then he says, “it sounded like a mighty big fight you two were havin’.”

“None of your fucking business what it was.”

“I’m not saying it is. I was just wondering if you need a hand.”

Bucky lifts his head sharply, baring his teeth. “Need a hand?” he repeats, incredulous. “What am I, a girl? I can take care of myself, buddy. Stay the hell away from me.”

Rumlow raises an eyebrow, looking faintly amused. “Damn,” he says, “the little guy must have said something brutal, to get you this riled up.” 

Bucky does his very best not to jump up and throttle the man. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he says; measured, controlled. 

“Not at all,” Rumlow says. “I just wanted to check on you. Y’know, make sure you hadn’t killed each other or something.”

It sounds… God help him, it sounds sincere. Something about the way he says it, the clarity of his expression, makes it seem like he actually cares, like he just wants to help. Bucky knows he’s an idiot for believing it, but hey, it’s not like he’s getting any sympathy from anywhere else. Who can blame him for wanting a friend? 

He scrubs a hand over his face and begins to lever himself up. His joints creak- he’s never felt so damn old. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, not meeting Rumlow’s eye. “I didn’t mean… I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. This… I know it’s nothing to do with you.”

“It’s no problem.”

“I’m not… I’m just not in a great place-“

“I get it, James. It’s fine.” He smiles, although there’s something resigned in his expression- something not quite complete. “You’ve had a tough few weeks, you and Steve.”

That draws him up short, because if he’s not much mistaken, Rumlow’s trying to be _sympathetic_. It sounds wrong. “Thanks. I appreciate that. I mean, I know you ain’t Steve’s biggest fan or anything.” 

Rumlow shrugs, pulling a pack of cigarettes out his pocket and sticking one between his lips. "Friend of yours is a friend of mine," he mumbles around his cigarette, and even though it isn’t even vaguely convincing, Bucky smiles at it all the same. 

Rumlow holds out the packet of smokes, eyebrow raised. Bucky thinks about it, thinks about Steve’s not-quite-fixed lungs, thinks about how much the kid hates the smell. “Thanks,” he says, taking one from Rumlow’s outstretched hand. 

“So who’s the new fella? The black guy?” Rumlow asks, tucking the pack into his jacket. 

“His name’s Sam,” Bucky says, and it takes all he has not to let the hatred into his voice. It still doesn’t really work. “He’s a doctor. Steve’s doctor.”

“You don’t like him,” Rumlow says. 

Bucky shrugs. “I don’t _want_ to not like him,” he mumbles, staring at his hands. “I just don’t.”

Rumlow flicks his lighter and leans towards the flame, lighting up and breathing out a cloud of smoke before he does the same for Bucky. The constant haze of smoke gets thicker. “Is it ‘cause he’s, y’know,” Rumlow gestures to his face. “A coloured fella?”

“What?” Bucky’s eyes go wide, and he shakes his head. “No, no. Jesus, that ain’t it.”

“Then what is it?” Rumlow asks. 

Well, that’s one hell of a question. 

"I don’t know,” Bucky says. “He’s not my kinda person, y’know?”

“Not really.”

Bucky sighs. “Well, he’s not… He’s too…” Rumlow must be getting some kind of sadistic thrill from this, watching Bucky squirm. He’s got this look of faint amusement on his face, like he’s watching a dog chasing it’s tail. “It’s hard to explain,” Bucky says, and Rumlow’s grin gets wider. 

"That's another story you owe me,” Rumlow muses, taking a drag on his cigarette. “You ever gonna come round for that drink or what?”

“Nah,” Bucky says. “I mean I’d love to, but…” He trails off when he realises he has literally no reason why not. Not even that he doesn’t want to. 

“You got plans or something?” Rumlow asks. The way he keeps staring- Christ. It’s weird. 

“I ain’t got plans.” He thinks for a moment. _Aw, fuck it._ “Yeah, okay. Why not? Get the whisky ready.”

Rumlow grins, slapping Bucky’s shoulder in that manly, testoserone-y way that Bucky’s never really understood. “That’s more like it. We’ll have some drinks, tell some stories.”

“Sounds swell.” 

"You ready now?"

Bucky glances back at the door to his- well, maybe not so much _his_ anymore- apartment. “I got nothing else to do,” he says, and tries a smile. 

Rumlow stubs out his smoke against the wall, flicking the cigarette butt to the ground. “You better come on in then,” he says, and Bucky drags himself to his feet. 

***

Rumlow’s apartment is clean, at least. It hasn’t got the view like Steve’s has, or the character, and it doesn’t have the unwashed, dilapidated, roach-infested charm of Bucky’s old one, but the dishes are clean and there’s no funny smell, so he supposes that’s something of a positive. There’s a distinctly Spartan feel to it though, all bare walls and bare floors and bare shelves, and Bucky feels a little lost in it. It’s too cold in here. 

But then Rumlow puts a bottle of whisky on the table, and that cheers the place right up. Two glasses join it, then two chairs, and before he knows it he’s sat down with Rumlow opposite him. Even after all he’s been through today, the scene’s surreal. 

“You got any toasts to make?” Rumlow asks drily, pouring himself a glass. 

“I got nothing to celebrate,” he mumbles, like the sad fuck he is. 

“Good health?”

“My back hurts, I pulled a muscle yesterday. I think my blood pressure is too high.”

Rumlow raises an eyebrow. “Right. So we’ll just drink then.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” 

_This,_ Bucky decides as he drains his glass, _is the only good idea I’ve ever had._

“So,” Rumlow starts, after a pause that’s not quite long enough. “This… whatever it is. With the little guy.” 

_Not little anymore,_ Bucky thinks, and goes for another shot of whisky. It’s cheap and bitter and probably more water than anything else, but he doesn’t have it in him to give a shit. “It’s nothing,” he says, staring at his glass. “Stupid stuff, really- I don’t even know why we’re fighting.” 

“I bet that ain’t true.”

Bucky shrugs. “Well,” he says, “I guess there was something.” Rumlow waits patiently for Bucky to continue, and Bucky takes his time, grimacing at the table the whole time. “I’m moving out, apparently,” he says gravely. 

Rumlow’s eyebrows furrow. “That it?” he asks. “Isn’t that good? Getting out of this place?”

Bucky’s surprised at how that makes his hackles rise. Like it or not (which he supposes he doesn’t,) _this place_ is his home, and no one’s allowed to insult it. Well, _Bucky_ can insult it, but that’s different- that’s his. 

(Was his.)

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, attempting a casual shrug. “I mean, I like it here. Well, maybe _like_ is the wrong word, but I don’t hate it.” He hesitates, then says, “I ain’t got anywhere else to go.” 

Rumlow thinks on this a moment. “If you don’t wanna leave, then why are you leaving?”

“Well, Steve can’t go, can he?”

“Why not?” 

“He just can’t,” Bucky says, because it really should be obvious. Anyone’s who’s seen Steve should know that this is where he belongs. “It’s his home.”

“It’s yours too,” Rumlow points out, in a voice that’s far too matter-of-fact. 

“No, it isn’t,” he says, doing his best to be patient. “I just live here, it isn’t like… Well, it isn’t like him.” 

Rumlow sighs, pursing his lips as he goes to refresh Bucky’s glass. He doesn’t even remember finishing it. “Do you even know why you’re protecting him?”

“I’m not protecting him,” Bucky says. “He doesn’t need protecting.” 

“Then why are you the one making compromises?” he asks. “This whole thing is his fault.”

“Well,” Bucky says, but he’s not sure whether he’s ready to take the blame just yet. Let him get a little more alcohol in him first. “I mean… Yeah, sure.” 

“So who gives a damn where he lives?” Rumlow says, and if Bucky didn’t know better, he’s say he was enjoying this. “The kid’s an asshole. Fuck him.” 

Bucky nods, and tries to swallow down the anger that’s wound its way around his throat. He knows that he shouldn’t be mad at Rumlow, not after he’s taken him in like this. Besides, the man’s right; there’s no reason to protect Steve- if he’d wanted Bucky’s help he wouldn’t have kicked him out. Bucky won’t defend him to Rumlow- he doesn’t deserve it. 

But still. 

“I’ve left now,” he says, shrugging. “It’s too late, I’ll get my own place.”

Rumlow rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says, like he’s offended, like it’s got anything to do with him. “At least tell him you hate him before you leave.” He watches Bucky take a drink. “If you want, you can tell him I hate him too. Tell him we all do.” 

Bucky has to try very hard not to rise to that. _I don’t care what they think,_ he swears to himself. _Steve’s not my problem anymore_. 

So he laughs, or does his best approximation of a laugh, and tries to shrug it off. “He’s never been good at staying outta trouble,” he admits, and he attempts to keep his voice light as his knuckles turn white around his glass. 

“Exactly. Never known when to keep his mouth shut.” Rumlow leans forward, overly eager, and yeah- Bucky’s certain he’s getting some sick sort of pleasure from this. “Y’know, I can’t think of a single person in the building whose toes he hasn’t stepped on. I mean, there used to be you, but now even that’s over. Personally, I’m surprised you could stand to live with him for this long.”

And that, Bucky decides, is enough. 

“What’s he ever done to you?” he demands, without really meaning to. He gropes blindly for the hate he felt earlier, but every time he thinks he’s got it it turns to smoke in his grasp. The only anger he has now is directed at the man opposite. 

Rumlow seems a little taken aback for a second, but it doesn’t last long. Soon he resumes his easy smile, his comfortable gestures. He’s managed to dismiss Bucky’s anger without saying a word. “Come on, James,” he drawls, like he’s talking to a kid (and not even a smart one- one of those really dumb ten year-olds that hangs around by the garbage.) “You’ve met the guy. He’s just so… Righteous.” 

“What’s wrong with being right?” 

“Not right, James- righteous. He _thinks_ he’s right. There’s a difference.” 

Bucky shrugs, and he swears there’s not even a _hint_ of petulance in the gesture. “Maybe sometimes he is right.”

Rumlow scoffs, leaning back in his chair as he rolls his eyes dramatically. “Attacking every fella he meets? Is that right?”

Bucky shrugs again. “Maybe they deserved it.”

“Well sure- that’s what he told you.” 

Bucky shakes his head adamantly. “He wouldn’t lie about that.”

Rumlow’s not even trying to hide the condescending glee on his face. He’s so goddamn _smug_. “I’m sure he’s not lying; I think he genuinely believes he’s doing the right thing.” He takes a swig from his glass, pausing just long enough to make Bucky impatient. “See, James, he’s got this… _complex_ , or something. He finds these guys, and he thinks that they’re wrong just because they’re bigger than he is. He thinks the world’s lookin’ down on him even when it ain’t.”

“He’s never tried to fight me.” 

Rumlow laughs. “That’s only ‘cause you’re almost as sorry as he is.” Bucky tries to find a reason to disagree, but he can’t come up with anything. The best he can do is grunt half-heartedly and hope it’s enough of a defence. 

Annoyingly, Rumlow takes that as a cue to continue. “See,” he says deliberately, like he knows exactly how fucking patronising it sounds, “Steve thinks that the underdog should always win. That just because you got more to lose, just because you’re willing to do more for the cause, that immediately makes you right. It’s childish, James. It’s naïve. The world don’t work like that, and that’s something he needs to come to terms with.”

Bucky grits his teeth. “I think you got it wrong.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I do.” He looks up to meet Rumlow’s gaze. “It’s simpler than that, you see. He just hates bullies. Fuck the way the world works- if it ain’t right, he’s gonna fight it. And if you’re on the receiving end, maybe that’s less to do with his inferiority complex, and more to do with you bein’ a grade-A asshole. Maybe that’s something _you_ need to come to terms with.” 

There’s a moment when they just stare at each other, both trying not to look pissed and only partially succeeding. “Fair enough,” Rumlow says after a while, conceding with a forced smile and a tip of his head. “Looks like there’s no convincing you.” He picks up his glass and adds, “he’s got you well trained.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Bucky fires back. Rumlow shakes his head. 

“It means you need another drink.” 

And finally, that’s something they can both agree on. 

They spend the next few hours (or maybe it was minutes- Bucky loses track after the fourth shot) drinking and rambling about nothing in particular. Bucky shares his stories about Christine, and Rumlow tells him some instantly-forgettable tales of his family, and it’s all very skin-deep and non-threatening. Bucky carries on calling him by his last name, and Rumlow doesn’t tell him his first. Rumlow carries on calling him James, and Bucky doesn’t bother to correct him. 

(There's a point, sometime after Bucky stops listening, that he hears Rumlow talking to him; unnaturally soft. _You don’t need anyone, James,_ he whispers. _You can make it on your own- in fact, you’re better on your own. You don’t need any of us._ The words waver, shift, change meaning mid-sentence, and Bucky doesn't know how he's making sense of it. In a voice that doesn't sound like his, Rumlow says, _But we need you, James, we all do. I need you, Steve needs you, and you don’t have to go, you can’t go, we want you to stay, I want you to stay,_ he _wants you to stay-_ )

(Or maybe Rumlow doesn’t say anything at all.)

(Bucky blinks the dream away and reaches for his glass.)

The whiskey really starts to kick then, and thinking stops being so much of an issue. He no longer cares what was (or wasn’t) said- it’s immaterial. The important thing is that he’s completely forgotten about Steve, and that was always the point of this venture. What he needs now is a little more whiskey (or maybe wine, does Rumlow have wine?) and then to blackout on Rumlow’s couch and wake up with the world’s worst headache. He makes the informed decision to fuck consequences- he’s pretty sure Future Bucky can deal with it. 

So until he loses consciousness, Bucky lets his mind wander. 

He starts by thinking about the whiskey, and then thinks about Robbie’s bar (a lifetime ago,) and then thinks about the whiskey again, and then thinks about Christine. Her hair, her clothes, her new guy- the one with the arms. John? George? George something. He thinks about cars, and Sam’s car, and then Sam. He thinks about that pain in his chest. He thinks about doctors and hospitals and scrawny kids wasting away in unseen Arizonian laboratories, covered in tubes and wires and strange-sounding machines. He thinks about his apartment, and home, and then Brooklyn streets at night. He thinks about fights and blood and broken bones, and thinks about arming himself with a beer bottle just in case- 

He jolts back to consciousness, regains control. All too heavy, he decides. He needs to be more careful. Tentatively, mentally arming himself against anything too morbid, he lets himself relax, and soon he’s thinking all over again. This time it’s better. This time he thinks about books, and art, and nature, and food, and then the whiskey again—

And then Rumlow. He thinks a lot about Rumlow. 

And then he gets this idea. A bad idea, granted, but an annoyingly persistent one. 

He knows he’s been here before, and he knows how badly it ended. If he thinks about it (which he tries his very best no to) then he knows that nothing good can come of what he’s about to do. There is literally no positive outcome. This will be, without a doubt, the worst decision he’s ever going to make (which, considering his track record lately, is saying a lot.) It’ll probably get him killed. 

He shouldn’t do it. 

_He’s gonna do it._

Rumlow’s still talking about God-knows-what, rambling on even though Bucky stopped listening an age ago. The man’s slightly drunk, his speech fraying a little at the edges, but it’s nothing more than a vague tipsiness, Bucky suspects; Rumlow might be a little more open now, but he’s still convincingly upright and he’s capable of stringing a whole sentence together. 

Bucky, on the other hand, is a complete mess. Gravity stops working every now and then, and his stomach keeps doing strange things, and everything is either hilarious or devastating. He can barely keep his eyes open but he tries his damnedest, because the world is looking a lot better than it did a couple of hours ago, and he doesn’t want to miss it. He’s pretty sure he could fight anyone. Literally anyone. 

Oh, he _really_ shouldn’t do it. 

He is _definitely_ gonna do it. 

“I’m gonna do it,” he slurs, because his filter’s completely shot, along with every other rational part of him.

“Do what?” Rumlow asks, with an abrasive confusion that Bucky (mainly because he has no other choice, considering the circumstances) decides to find endearing, rather than threatening. 

_Now or never,_ he thinks, and somehow decides that _now_ is the better option of the two. 

So he leans forward, and the whole world tips underneath him, and he plants a hand on Rumlow’s knee, and he aims for Rumlow’s mouth. 

It is, as Bucky predicted, a _catastrophic_ mistake. 

To call it a kiss would be overstating things. For one thing, a kiss implies some kind of reciprocity, which there decidedly wasn’t. Kiss suggests some sort of affection, maybe, which Bucky does not have for Rumlow (and Rumlow certainly doesn’t have for Bucky). Kiss gives the impression of love and lust and pursed lips and passion which- well, technically it was there, but it was all very one sided. Most importantly, kiss means happiness, and neither of them are at all happy about this situation. 

_That_ \- whatever it was that he actually did- was something completely different entirely. It hardly even _existed_ \- there was barely even contact. Bucky’s so drunk he may have just imagined the whole thing; it’s perfectly possible that there was no touching at all, just some overzealous lunging and a near miss. His reaction times are slowed; what are the chances that his drunken leaning was faster than Rumlow’s disgusted retreat? Slim, probably. Nothing, probably. 

Sadly, Rumlow doesn’t seem to see the distinction. The intent was there, and even if it turns out that Bucky missed completely, he still did _something_. He still wanted to do _something_.

And judging by the look on Rumlow’s face, that _something_ is about to get him killed. 

“Uh,” Bucky says. 

“Fuck,” Rumlow spits, wiping his mouth aggressively. “Shit, what was that?” Bucky assumes, or at least hopes, that the question’s rhetorical- he doesn’t fancy coming up with an answer. It’s not until Rumlow’s satisfied that he’s got all the _queer_ off his face that he looks up at Bucky. _Mad_ doesn’t even come close. 

Bucky feels the need to fill the silence- probably because he’s an idiot. “Sorry,” he says, tentatively. “I thought-“

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Rumlow says. His voice is manic, and his eyes are sharp, and there’s a profound twist to his features that Bucky’s pretty sure translates to some real intense disgust. It’s certainly not good. Bucky’s chest tightens a little more, and his muscles tense up. He’s ready to run. He’s not completely sure he won’t shit himself. 

“I thought-“ he says, and then discovers that there was never an end to that sentence. There’s a silence that’s so thick he can barely breathe. “You looked-“ _Pretty?_ he thinks, and almost throws up. _Handsome? Queer?_ It turns out there’s no good end to that sentence either, so he abandons it. “If it helps,” he says, after about a century, “I’m very, very drunk.”

If anything it makes Rumlow angrier. His jaw’s so tense that it’s a wonder his teeth haven’t shattered, his nostrils are flaring a little too much, and he has a definite eye-bulge-thing going on. On reflection, Bucky decides, Rumlow is not as attractive as he’d once thought. 

He should really be running. 

“You’re _sick_ ,” Rumlow says. “You so much as look at me again I’ll fucking kill you.”

Bucky takes that as his cue to look away. “Understood,” he says.

“Get out my fucking building.”

_Fair enough,_ Bucky thinks. 

He likes to think that there’s no shame in sprinting for the door. 

***

There are two flights of steps that get him out the building. There’s a long walk to each one, and unfortunately they give him time to think. 

When he reaches the bottom of the first set, he realises quite how fucking awful that was. 

There’s the fear, of course. Fear because he’s been exposed, fear because he can’t take it back, fear because now he’s on his own. He can’t go back to Steve anymore, and he wouldn’t dream of bringing Sam or Natasha into this. Not like he can go back to work after this- he’s a bad worker at the best of times, and there’s definitely no way anyone’s gonna employ him after this. His life here is near-enough over, and that’s pretty fuckin’ terrible, because he doesn’t think he can handle being on his own again. 

But it’s not just the big stuff that gets to him- in truth, that hasn’t quite hit him yet- but there are pettier things too. Rejection, for one. Even though it’s stupid, and even though Rumlow’s a jerk, and even though he knows he has far bigger problems, the rejection of it still stings a little. It may have been ridiculous, but for a moment there he thought it was possible; there was a hope, albeit a slim one. He could have—Well, he doesn’t know what he could have had, but it had felt like it would have been nice. It’s gone now though, and Steve’s gone too, and the steaming pile of _nothing_ he’s accumulated is getting a little overwhelming. 

And then, without warning, he’s hit in the chest by a startling sense of waste. _Fuck_ , all that time he’d spent being cautious, and choosing his words carefully, and staying out of the way; all that time he’d tortured himself for the sake of secrecy… Wasted. None of it mattered, and it’s all because he had too much to drink one night and did something _stupid_. 

And that, for some reason, is something he decides to blame on Steve. Why shouldn’t he- it’s not like the kid’s here to defend himself. What’s he going to do- throw him out? 

Besides, as far as Bucky’s concerned it really is Steve’s fault. He wouldn’t have been drinking if it wasn’t for their fight, and he definitely wouldn’t have been in Rumlow’s apartment. Bucky had tried to be civil, hadn’t he? It was Steve who’d backed him into a corner, who’d drawn it out for as long as he did. Without Steve, he wouldn’t have been worn-down enough to do something so destructively, despairingly, life-ruiningly stupid. 

Rumlow’s going to tell everyone, there’s no doubt about that. He’s not the type to keep secrets. If Bucky’s lucky, he’ll only be run out of town; if he’s unlucky, he’ll be killed. Brooklyn isn’t the most forward-thinking of places- he wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t make it through the week. 

On the plus side, he doesn’t think he’ll get arrested, and he doubts he’ll be shipped off to the asylum just yet. Mainly that’s because the people around here don’t tend to get the police involved unless they really have to- they much prefer to take things into their own hands- but also because he hasn’t _technically_ done anything. Well, he _has_ , but he hasn’t done anything illegal just yet. At least, not for a while. 

It comes to something when the only silver lining he can find is that he’s not going to be imprisoned or lobotomised. 

In summary: Fuck. 

And it's on that thought that he reaches the bottom of the second set of stairs, and he realises something else. There are footsteps behind him. Lots of them. 

And now that he thinks about it, there’s shouting too. Sporadic voices, frantic organisation, pounding feet. There’s a group of them, and they’re coming for him. Rumlow’s got his pals involved, and they’re coming to get him. 

There’s this moment where everything stops, and there’s just him, and a split-second opportunity to be rational. He could go down fighting, if he wanted to. He could meet them at the bottom of the stairs, look them in the eyes as they come to meet him, throw a few punches before they knock him down. It means the whole thing would happen in this building: Pros; he gets to stay on familiar ground, on his own turf, in his home; cons; everyone can see him as he’s beaten to a pulp, and everyone gets to hear what he did, and everyone gets to spit on him. There’s a chance that he’d look pitiful enough to redeem himself- maybe some poor sap would be dumb enough to leap to his rescue. Chances are slim. Either way, the results are the same; _maimed and shamed_. 

Or, he could run. Sprint out the door, hope for the best, pray they wouldn’t find him. They would, of course. There’s a lot more of them, and they’re in a lot better shape than he is, so he wouldn’t have any hope. Besides, this is a weekly occurrence to them- even if he managed to hide away somewhere, he’d still be found. They’re practiced hunters, these guys- trained predators. They’d sniff him out in no time, and he’d bleed without even being able to say he fell with dignity. 

(Steve would fight. Steve would have enough pride to go down with his fists up.)

But then he sees them, bursting from the stairwell like hornets after you’ve poked their nest with a big, excrement covered stick, and the moment ends. There’s Malone, with that scar from the knife fight he lost a finger in, and there’s Ronald the Arsonist, and the fella who lost an eye in the war, and keeps the shrapnel that did it in his shoe. And there’s Rumlow- the smallest of all of them. They’re insane, every single one. They’re gonna fucking skin him. 

Fuck clarity. Fuck pride. Fuck everything- he hasn’t got a chance. 

So he runs.


End file.
